


Chemical Freeway

by OctaviaPeverell



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angsty Schmoop, BAMF Stiles, But he doesn't mean to be, Derek Uses His Words, Derek is surprised when he finds out, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not that kind of massage, Oblivious Stiles, Papa Stiles just looks out for his baby boy, Romance, Scott is kind of a bad friend, Slow Build, Stiles goes to massage class, Stiles is a lonely snowflake, Written in the middle of S3, not yet at least, watching movies solo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:10:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctaviaPeverell/pseuds/OctaviaPeverell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once, there was no magical serial killer on the loose killing every other person and their mother. The result: Scott and Allison sneak around more and/or develop a very ambiguous and questionable friendship with Isaac; Derek's Pack spend more quality time with each other and Stiles has a few more hours to fill each day. So, he joins a massage society, goes to the movies on his own and aimlessly drives around the outback of Beacon Hills, searching for nothing in particular except something to do with his time. Derek notices and reaches out a subtly as he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Solitary

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT 24/10/2013: Because there seems to be some confusion about updates and such, let me clarify. I graduated in June 2013 but I've started another university course in October 2013. So while I got to update a lot more during the summer, alas, I'm back in uni and doing a Masters so while there won't be a month between every update, I can't promise quicker updates. :( Sorry, guys! I do hope you'll forgive me but, uh, lots of work due and a Masters is pretty stressful at the best of times. This story IS my outlet, of course, and I'm doing my best to finish it as soon as possible. It remains un-betaed so again, all mistakes are mine and I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know if you spot any so I can edit it! :)
> 
> Thanks,   
> Owraithe  
> xxxx

It pretty much started because no one was trying to kill him or anyone in the pack and the irony of the entire affair left more to be desired than the sex that Stiles was perpetually lacking. That said, almost everyone came to the eventual agreement that it happened because Scott was being a bad friend – nothing new there – and because after a while, Stiles just kind of forgot about it and simply had a few more hours in his day that needed to be filled with some sort of non-supernatural, non-furry recreation. For the sake of variety, the internet was a trustworthy advisor and confidante – especially where Incognito was involved. Club activities kind of sucked for the shortage of student participation. String club? _Really?_ Sure, if strawberry liquorice was involved.

Weather permitting, Stiles started driving more. Scenic routes were highly underrated and Beacon hills had its fair share of animal crossings and deer herds if you knew where to look. As it happened, Stiles’ extended discovery of his home town was more by accident, trial and error and failing to read the roadmaps correctly. Google Maps for the win and an iPhone would have been nice had he been able to afford it. Sadly, breaking one smart phone meant reverting technologically to an unbreakable brick of a Nokia until he was deemed worthy enough by Overlord Stilinski to the magical green paper required to purchase such a life necessity. But whatever, man; water-stained, crumpled and faded paper maps were the induction party to becoming a man of the world. All he needed was more chest hair. 

Currently, the weather was warm enough for a t-shirt but cool enough to require a hoodie with fluorescent stripes just in case he ran in front of a deer. Or, whatever. Because seriously, watch where you’re prancing motherfucker. But as luck would have it, Stiles hit the brakes for the third time that hour as papa deer, with his sexy wife and flouncy baby hopped across the road. 

“Hey, how ya doin’? Nice weather for a stroll, huh?” he felt inclined to say out the window. Papa deer gave him a swish of that embarrassingly short tail and disappeared into the forest. “Fuck you too! See if we’re ever hooking up again, asshole!” 

The whole talking to animals wasn't restricted to werewolves. In this day and age, discrimination was bad, folks. 

He kept driving, singing aloud to good ol’ Nicki Minaj – Super Bass was the freaking bomb, dawgs. And the fact that he was hitting all those notes three chords up from his actual register was an achievement to be proud of. Maybe he’d write a letter to Scott; _Scotty got my heartbeat running away~_. Because just because Scott had the worst track record for standing up his BFF didn’t mean the man didn’t need Stiles’ love or that Stiles wouldn’t love him tender and sweet. Allison and her dimples had nothing on Stiles and his moles. Though, Stiles didn’t think he’d make a particularly attractive girl if it came down to it. He’d need _way_ more genes from his mom. 

His little karaoke session didn’t last too long, though, when the party was gate-crashed by none other than Derek Can’t-Smile-to-Save-a-Puppy Hale, Blonde n’ Buxom, Cheekbones and Silent n’ Strong running across the darkening road and wolfed out. 

“See, I need you in my life for you to – FUCK MY LIFE SHITS ON A STICK!” 

And the intelligent little furballs that they were, the quartet stopped right in the middle of the road and _waited_ for the Jeep, Stiles’ poor, poor baby, to screech to a halt roughly three inches away from the iron door that was Derek McFucking Hale. Name-calling was totally warranted when one almost died and killed someone in the process. 

Insurmountable irritation and hysteria stemming from the undeniable fact that at any other time he _would_ have actually killed someone, rose up with his unimpressive frame and he slammed his hands against the steering wheel in a rage. 

“Fuck!” he shouted, before jumping out of his abused baby. She should totally file charges against her aggressors. “Seriously, you guys? Take your wolf run on someone else’s turf because this one’s taken!” 

Raised brows and silence were his only response and, wow, way to skim the issue there, Stiles. 

“You didn’t pee on it,” Isaac remarked bluntly, to which Stiles pulled a face. 

“Wuh-?”

“It’s your turf once you pee on it,” Cheekbones explained, getting a smirk from Blonde n’ Beautiful. 

Stiles squinted. “Is that an invitation to whip out my junk because, uh, dude? Company?” 

Cheekbones turned red, which, ha, that was funny. “I didn’t mean- that was a _joke!_ ”

“Hey, man, I don’t discriminate against love, especially when you look like that.” 

“Stiles,” Derek cut in, his face human once more and his expression thoroughly indifferent and bored, “stop hitting on my beta.”

He held his hands up and turned around with a roll of his eyes. “He’s too pretty for me anyway. Plus, I got things to do, places to be so try not to jump in front of a moving vehicle in the near future, especially a blue Jeep, because, hey, the brakes might not actually work next time.” The slamming of his door felt like a good finale to end things except Isaac seemed to want to keep talking. 

“Hey, wait, tell Scott to join us next time.” Stiles didn’t miss the irritated but resigned expression on Derek’s face, which probably meant that they’d all debated and Derek lost this battle. 

But really, he wasn’t a freaking owl. 

“Tell him yourself; you’ve got his number right? ‘Sides, I haven’t seen him in a while anyway,” he said with his head out the window, which was a redundant gesture considering, you know, super hearing and all. “Later, dudes.”

This time they actually moved out of the way and Erica even grinned and waved as he rolled past them, to which he responded with a casual, two-fingered salute. He caught Derek’s gaze in the rear-view mirror and the guy just stood there after his three lackeys – that was mean, but they _were_ lackeys to begin with – had disappeared from view. The glare softened into a blank canvass that was Derek’s face whenever he _wasn’t_ glaring, but having those green-gray eyes focused on him with such strange intensity sent a shiver of _something_ up his spine, the echo of which stayed with him long after Derek was gone. 

\--

Massage class was less about nekkid bodies and well-oiled, glistening backs and more about Zen, Tibetan music, candles and the awesome smell of various massage oils that really put a person in the mood for relaxation. There were a surprising number of guys who seem, like Stiles, to have gotten over touching their male massage buddies. Their Filipino-Indian instructor, Miss Sicat, was the coolest older woman Stiles has ever met, other than Scott’s mom. Teaching massage appeared to be her own mode of therapy if her perpetually dishevelled self upon each arrival was anything to go by. Lydia would probably quote something about singular variables but he was absolutely certain he saw her trying not to cry outside the supermarket once when the security guard told her off for parking in a no-parking zone. 

They were doing foot massages today and she was teaching them about reflexology, which was shit-fucking-painful when she demonstrated it on each of them during the first twenty minutes of the class. Stiles glanced down at his foot chart, feeling his way along his partner’s foot – which was in need of some deep moisturising but completely clean otherwise – and rubbing back and forth under the big toe for the reflex point to the neck. 

“Dude, that feels really good,” Danny commended. Stiles had been surprised to find Danny in his first Friday session and felt pretty good when he turned up to each one after. It felt…a little less lonely even though they weren’t what anyone would call good friends, but Danny had never been actively mean to him, unlike his scaly douche of a best friend. 

“Is it supposed to? So far everyone’s complained that it hurts like a bitch,” Stiles said flatly, pumping more of the lavender scented oil into his palm. “And you need to moisturise, man. Aint’ nobody like scaly feet.”

Danny’s lip curled wryly. “Thanks, man. And I thought I was gay.”

Shooting him a pointed look, Stiles slowly and deliberately pumped a little extra oil into his palm. “I own a peppermint foot scrub. It’s called taking care of yourself.”

“It’s call _grooming_ or _pampering_. Do you need pampering, Stiles?”

“Do I need to be female to _be_ pampered, Danny?”

Danny snorted and pulled his feet back to take a look at his soles. Stiles had done a good job on the oil, so it didn’t look too bad anymore. “I’ll deal with my feet when I get back,” he grinned.

“I’ll lend you my foot scrub,” Stiles piped up helpfully. 

“Thanks, but I’ll just borrow Jackson’s.”

He gaped, offended. “Then why’d you give me crap for scrubbing my _feet_?”

“Uh, because he’s _Jackson_ and you’re _Stiles_?” Danny said slowly, as if it was supposed to make perfect sense. Discriminant jerk. Still, he let Danny start working on his feet with significantly less oil because, to be honest, the guy had magical fingers and if Stiles played up the pleased groans now and again, it was only to prove Danny’s skills to the other members. “So, you never told me why you joined massage class,” Danny said as he swept his thumb up and down Stiles’ stomach reflex, making him hiss. 

“Needed something relaxing,” he groans, teeth clenched. Reflexology is a null term considering the whole process tends to make one’s muscles tense in pain with the continuous and increasing pressure of the strokes on a single spot for way too long in Stiles’ foot’s opinion. “Lacrosse practice is nice and all but not exactly soothing for the soul.”

“And you’re in need of something to ‘soothe your soul’?” was the disbelieving response, along with Danny’s knuckle digging into a particularly sore knot, which made Stiles’ toes curl in discomfort. “Stop; you’re making it worse.”

Forcing his feet to unclench, Stiles leaned back on his elbows and faced the ceiling with closed eyes. “I’m in need of the soothing of everything,” he murmured tiredly. “Soothe me, Danny-boy,” he breathed dramatically, “soothe every single part of me right.”

Danny snorted again, which, really, kind of offensive because Stiles may not be Jackson with the cheekbones, or Danny with that sexy Springsteen jaw, nor was he Isaac’s come-hither smirk or Boyd’s silently suggestive eyes but he was _pretty cute_ if one went for that sort of thing. 

“I don’t think it’s me you want soothing from, Stiles-baby,” he drawled and _wow_ , but that drawl was _smokin’_. For a moment, Stiles entertained the highly graphic fantasy of him and Danny doing the whole love and sex – a _lot_ of sex – thing that involved Danny’s broad, hot bod, a _nekkid_ Stiles and a squeaky bed. But as lovely and sweet as Danny was, the attraction was unfortunately nil. If only. 

“Whom else am I supposed to be getting any love from? You’re the only boy in my life at the moment, shnookums.” He reached over and pinched Danny’s cheek, which would have been easier if the guy weren’t all cheek _bones_ and zero body fat. Stiles called foul play. 

“I dunno, how about _Scott?_ ”

Ah. 

“Alas, he’s reserved all his love for Allison and, oddly enough, he and Isaac have some weird, tense eye-fucking thing coupled with a dash of bromance going on.” _That_ had been a spontaneous and random development that no one but Stiles seemed to notice despite the extremely _obvious_ shared grins and silent inside jokes that manifested themselves in the form of pointed glances and suggestively raised brows. _Not fair_. 

Danny grimaced as he finished up with Stiles’ right foot and moved onto the other. “That’s not gonna end well; I don’t think Allison’s into sharing.”

“Maybe she’s a closet kinkster.”

“ _Kinkster?_ Really?”

“Don’t let the dimples fool you, dude.”

“Duly noted.”

It was kind of nice, actually. He and Danny were never _friends_ per se but you didn’t have to be friends to like a person. And Danny was just about the nicest guy around, even if he took a while to actually start talking to Stiles because what wasn’t to like? 

When class was over, they exchanged ideas for each other’s history papers as they cleaned up before going their separate ways. When he got home, he managed to get his dad to eat the vegan pasta he’d made the night before with as little grumbling as a meat-lover could manage, and then got started on his paper while simultaneously watching Youtube videos of baby animals. Bunnies were _awesome_. So were squeaky wolf pups that made sticky noises with their tongues as they guzzled milk from a bottle. 

He was halfway through analysing the effect of the Wall Street crash on _Ford_ productions when a certain someone shoved up his window and landed in his room. The Doritos all over the floor were totally an accident caused by a careless hand as he swivelled around in his chair rather than the product of a full-body flail and a high-pitched shout. 

“You do realise that you’re no longer a fugitive and ergo, you’re allowed to use the front door, right? Or is window-stalking just…your thing?” he snarked, trying to get his heart rate down again. 

“I was looking for Scott,” Derek said flatly, by way of explanation, arms folded as per usual, which was, okay, generic Alpha Derek pose. But, newsflash, no one alpha-ed Stiles. 

“Oh, I see, uh huh, and turning up at _Stiles’_ place would make so much sense.”

A formidable, dark brow rose and right, that was his cue for answering the unasked question of where Scott McFuckall was. 

“Clearly, he’s not here. Have you tried Allison’s? He usually sneaks in when her dad’s not around.”

“I was hoping not to have to,” he answered in resignation. “But his scent at her apartment wasn’t fresh and she was inside.” 

Stiles frowned and spun a pencil between his fingers for a beat. “Where’s Isaac?” he asked finally. 

Confused, Derek answered, “Out…somewhere.”

“Real specific, dude, clap hands, everybody.” Before Derek could chew him out, though, he said, “But Scott’s probably with Isaac; they’re mega buddies now. What do you need him for anyway?”

Derek got a strange look on his face and stared at Stiles, and then around his room for a few moments, before meeting his gaze again. “Nothing. He just missed pack training.” 

Apparently Cora had special status as Derek’s baby sister to miss training and Peter did his own thing 99% of the time and no one could be bothered keep tabs on that motherfucker. Stiles mouthed an ‘oh’ and once again the silence of awkwardness settled around them but only for a surprisingly brief amount of time before Derek opened his usually silent mouth again. 

“That day you were driving. Where were you going?” 

And that actually made him smile. “Nowhere in particular. Just…driving and adventuring and exploring the wonders of Beacon Hills. We’ve got some crazy ley lines running through here so who knows _where_ I’d end up?” he said, holding his arms out widely. 

“Nowhere good if you’re alone,” Derek pointed out, though the judgment was softened somewhat by the slight upward quirk of his lips and man, Stiles thought he should totally be less of a grouch and just a little more smiley because _cute_. 

“You are totally welcome to join me when you aren’t babysitting wolf pups. Put cough syrup in their milk next time, it’ll knock ‘em right out.” And wow, that was weird, because inviting Derek Hale on one of his adventure trips had never happened before because adventure trips were Stiles Trips and that rhymed with ‘solitary’ and nothing rhymed with ‘Stiles and Derek Trips.’ 

“Human medicine doesn’t quite work as much on werewolves.”

Way to miss the point, Fido. Then again, Stiles thought with an internal frown, maybe he was just turning him down as indirectly as possible. Psychobabble didn’t work on Stiles, though. He found it fucking _irritating_. 

“Fair enough.” 

And cue awkward silence, yet again, because of the typical awkwardness of trying to befriend Derek Fail. 

“I’m gonna go,” Derek muttered, averting his eyes and making his way to the window. 

“You do that, buddy. Beat the forest traffic and all.”

Derek didn’t say anything to that and swiftly jumped out of Stiles’ window without bothering to shut it. _Rude_. With a sigh, Stiles went over to close it, leaning against the windowpane and searching the blackness for who knows what before pulling it shut. 

\--

“You know,” Overlord Stilinski began, levelling the ‘vegetarian spare ribs’ with a look that people often had as they prepared for battle, “at my last appointment the doctor said my heart was functioning just fine.”

He was clearly angling for a break from all the wholefoods Stiles had been preparing for him for the past three years but hadn’t got the memo regarding the fact that Stiles had fascist control over his diet for the rest of his life. 

“Your last appointment went well because I have control over the grocery list.” He flipped the ‘ribs’ over with a pair of tongs and drizzled more of the homemade ‘healthy’ marinade that probably looked like it consisted of grass to his dad. It was actually thyme, father dearest. “Besides, we already have the whole weekend cheat going on.”

“You make Mondays worse than they already are, son.”

“And on a Monday fifty years from now you’ll be grateful to me that you can enjoy your retirement on your feet rather than in a wheelchair.”

With a sigh and a fond smile, his father patted him on the back and got the table ready. They had the same argument every other night that his father was home and it almost always ended the same way except for the one time his father had gotten pissed off enough to open up the freezer and pull out a tub of Chunky Monkey and Stiles had to chase the man around the house to pry the ice cream from his hands, though not before he’d guzzled half the tub. Not one of their most mature moments, but they’d had a good laugh afterwards. 

“I’ll let you have extra cheese on your salad, though,” Stiles accommodated, twisting to look over his shoulder. He didn’t need to know it was lactose-free cheese. 

“How generous of you.”

Stiles tried a different tactic that coincided with a topic he’d wanted to bring up for a while now. “Think of all the ladies you’ll attract with that glowing skin.”

The man stilled and Stiles counted the beats until he set the last plate down and turned around to look at him, wary and…sad?

“Stiles, I’m not-”

“You’re ready, dad. You’re – you’re ready to _get_ ready.” He shut off the oven and pulled the ribs out, placing them in the middle of the table because for a serious conversation between the Stilinski men, ribs were a manly necessity. “And don’t think I’m trying to get someone to cover for mom because that’s _never_ gonna happen. _No one_ will ever replace her.” And wasn’t that the truth. Stiles wasn’t ready to move on but he didn’t need to hold his dad back when someone could be looking after _him_ while Stiles was away for four years of college or just for someone to _be there_ for the man in the way his mom couldn't be. “Look, dad,” he said quietly, earnestly, “it’s not about me. I don’t even have to like her – I mean I’d prefer if I did and I’d like you to let me check her records and everything first so we know she’s not a money-guzzler – but just think about it?” 

Sighing, his father grinned weakly. “We don’t even have that much money to guzzle anyway, so I don’t think that’d be a problem.”

He snorted. “And we can always get Scott to screen her for anything fishy.”

The man laughed and they settled down to eat. 

“Speaking of Scott, he hasn’t been around here much lately.” He paused and then brandished a fork at him. “And you’ve got weird hours again. Nothing supernatural going on, right?”

“Scott’s trying to be with Allison as much as possible, I’ve joined a massage society – not _that_ kind of massage, seriously, dad! Aaaand nope, nothing supernatural that wasn’t already here as far as I’m aware.”

His dad got this concerned frown but Stiles was too busy dishing out salad and topping it with grated cheese to notice. “What about your other…werewolf friends? That Isaac kid’s all right, isn’t he?”

Stiles shrugged nonchalantly. “He’s okay. Nowadays he’s less leather and more likable – here’s your salad, extra healthy dressing.”

“Thanks,” came the gruff response. “Now, uh, what about the other ones? B-Boyd, was it?”

“What about him?” Seriously, he made a mean salad. 

“Are you friends with him?”

“Kind of sort of not really.” He sucked a little sauce off his thumb. “He and Erica have this weird…not dating but together type of thang. At least they both stopped skipping school.” Mmmm, fake ribs were actually kinda awesome. 

“Oh.”

“Mmhmm, I also met Danny at massage club – I think he likes me more now.” Stiles forgave him, obviously; Jackson must’ve rubbed off of him, what with his inner snake. 

“That’s good, nice to hang out with someone you haven’t really been around before,” his father conceded, and Stiles looked up to see a smile on the man’s face. There was something else, though, that his father usually reserved for when he was worried about Stiles. Which was weird because, hey, this time he wasn’t actually hiding anything or doing anything illegal, nor did he have the intention of doing anything that could potentially get his father fired. Again. 

“Yeah, dad. It is.”

\--

Thursday night found Stiles at a place in town called The Bell Jar where they were showing a different Hitchcock movie each night for a week. Tonight it was The Birds, which Stiles had never really seen in its entirety because big names tended to sprout some sort of need to support an underdog instead. And because these trendy-trashy little places often charged the amount a client paid for a handjob for a Snickers bar, Stiles filled his bag with enough chocolate, candy and a bottle of Coke to last him the length of the film. 

A couple of weeks ago he watched Mars Attacks! which was one of those films that never failed to make him laugh and he rather liked pointing out all the famous people. It was possibly the only movie where he had a high threshold of tolerance for Sarah Jessica Parker. She didn’t look that bad with her head attached to her Chihuahua. The week before that he managed to catch The Fountain, Garden State – which was, in his opinion, a waste of life – and Shawshank Redemption, which was possibly the most overrated film of all time, he didn’t care what IMDb said. 

All in all, though, it wasn’t the most gratifying use of his time but it at least staved off the boredom of staying at home with little else to do other than talk to the four walls of his bedroom and jerk off to whomever’s face appeared behind his closed eyes. Nowadays Lydia didn’t even make an appearance with her lips ever plastered to Jackson’s whenever Stiles tried to be proactive about it. But he just couldn’t do it to Jackson’s face alone or with Lydia. Scott and Allison were out of the question, as were Erica and Boyd. Danny was cute but Stiles was still trying out the whole bro thing before he pushed further and Isaac was…Isaac. Isaac was like the homeless kitten you desperately wanted to take home but every time you tried to reach for it, it scratched you. Basically, no Isaac. Peter didn’t even deserve an honorary mention. Dude was a freak. 

That left Derek who was kind of damaged and kind of had a thing with their English teacher before she went all homicidal on them and then with Kate before that and the guy seriously could never catch a break except when it had to do with his body parts. 

Not exactly jerkoff material personality-wise, but his body was possibly carved by Zeus himself before the old man got fed up with the bitchface. 

“Stiles.”

And wow, telepathic werewolf alert. 

“Derek!” he squeaked in a manly voice, mouth full of chocolate and probably-definitely some smeared around his mouth. It was an appropriate response in the face of tight jeans, tight t-shirt and leather boots, oh, and six werewolves behind him, including Scott, which, what _even._

“Stiles!” Scott’s face lit up and he bounded over, nudging a sour looking Jackson out of the way. “What’re you doing here, man?” 

He glanced down at the ticket in his own hand and then back up at Scott with a raised brow. 

“I think the better question is what are _you_ doing here? Because last I checked you weren’t too buddy buddy with Mr Fierce Face over there.” And if a twinge of bitterness had to be suppressed when Derek shot him one of his condescending looks and the other wolves completely ignored his existence that was Stiles’ business and no one else’s because suppression was something he was _good_ at. 

Scott winced and glanced back at the group, shrugging and giving Stiles that sheepish, squinty-eyed look that usually got him out of trouble with anyone concerned. 

“We’re…working on it.”

“Okay, for some reason it sounds like you went to couples counselling or something, except in this case it’s more like orgy counselling because, hi Jackson.” The guy sneered at Stiles and otherwise ignored him. “Nice to see you haven’t lost your homicidal demeanour, real great, that.” He rolled his eyes and reached down to check a text from his father when his phone vibrated in his pocket. 

“So what movie are you seeing?” Scott asked, smiling, blissfully ignorant of the fact that Stiles wasn’t totally _in_ with the lycan bunch back there. Cora had at least warmed up to him a little when he made an off-handed Deadpool joke, and Erica still called him ‘Batman’ whenever he was paired with her in chemistry. Other than that, though, the only time they really spoke was when someone was in danger of dying and Stiles volunteered his super researching skills to which no one could hold a candle.

“I was gonna see The Birds,” he responded, distracted as he struggled to tap out a reply. 

“So’re we! Peter decided. You should sit with us!”

Where the aforementioned asshat was, Stiles didn’t bother asking. It seemed like a Peter thing to do to not turn up for his own arrangements.

Stiles glanced up, unimpressed at the constipated sound that came from Jackson’s throat and the resigned, impatient sigh from Derek. Aaaand that pretty much made his mind up for him as his fingers got to work on the phone.

“Mm, nope, not tonight. My dad just called in.” He had to smile at Scott’s slightly crestfallen look and slapped him on the shoulder. Nothing personal, of course. “But no worries, bro, you can have my ticket.” Because he was going home to watch crappy TV and crash like a light bulb because he had nothing better to do with his time, apparently, and chilling with a bunch of werewolves not only felt like the chore of all chores but the added tension of an ADHD kid would only raise the humiliation levels to critical mass. “Chris Argent still not letting Allison see you?”

Scott shook his head sadly. “No. She also went out with Lydia last night so her dad wanted her to stay in today.”

“Sucks.” Like a really bad blowjob. Not that he’d had any experience to know what was considered bad but imagination was his best friend when the knowledge was lacking. “Anyways, you have fun with your puppy pile-”

“You can join us if you like.” 

Stiles froze for a couple of seconds, blinking owlishly at the alpha who was looking at Stiles with an expression similar to the one he wore a few nights ago – the same unreadable frown and scrutinising eyes. 

“Wow, that must’ve actually _hurt_ you to say,” Stiles blurted because his brain to mouth filter was a lost cause and a source of frustration and despair to most mechanics…or doctors. “But, uh, no thanks,” he waved his phone around, “duty calls.”

Averting his eyes back to Scott before the guy could say anything else, Stiles dug around in his bag for a packet of Red Vines and handed them to Scott, whose face brightened as he took the confectionary gift. 

“We still on for practice on Sunday?”

Scott hesitated for a few seconds and Stiles didn’t miss the way he cast a cursory glance towards the group. 

“Yeah, uh…” And Stiles knew that tone. “It’s still on but do you mind if Isaac joined us?”

Or apparently he didn’t. 

“ _Isaac?_ ”

“S’up.”

“Yo.” He gave the guy a flippant wave, eyes focused on his best friend. 

“Yeah.” Scott scratching the back of his neck could mean a lot of things and for once, Stiles wasn’t entirely certain he could read into the gesture. “Since we’re both on the team and all. And Coach knows you’re better now so…teamwork and stuff?”

Teamwork and _stuff?_ Somehow Stiles had a hard time believing that it was completely casual, at least from Isaac’s perspective, because one would have to be blind – or Scott and everyone else – to miss the fond looks thrown his way. 

Seriously? He was a teenager not a chaperone. And Isaac may have warmed up to him and the feeling was semi-mutual but when that was only due to their mutual friendship of Scott and when he was removed from the picture there was a painful lack of an icebreaker. But, whatever, he could do this. Sharing Scott wasn’t exactly a new concept ever since Peter. The evil fucker. 

So, he plastered on a smile as real as he could manage and slung his bag over his shoulder again. 

“Sure thing. I’ll see you both Sunday. Later.”

And with a brief wave to the group of silent brooders, Stiles turned to leave, managing to keep pace even when he heard a feminine whisper behind saying, “Was he going to watch a movie all by himself?”

And he really didn’t want to picture the judgmental, pitying and snidely amused look on their faces, instead consoling himself with the knowledge that werewolves severely underestimated the radius of human hearing.

Before he went to bed, though, he was gonna bake one hell of a corn cake for his dad for his excellent timing in asking him to buy coffee on the way back from his movie and informing him that he was going to be taking the nightshift because a colleague was ill, indirectly saving Stiles the humiliation of crashing in on a party where he was clearly going to be the seventh wheel – bless your soul, Scott.


	2. Marginal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles feels a little more left out but tries not to show it, especially not in front of Danny the Sweetheart. Cora isn't so bad to talk to once in a while and Derek is still a climbin' in yo windows and snatchin' yo people up. Basically, Stiles isn't sure what to feel and no one knows what Derek's up to yet.

Stiles met Scott and Isaac on the field fully geared and warmed up for the practice drills. Was it still teamwork in a pair? Because from the moment he got there the two were huddled up and giggling like a pair of kindergartners and it didn’t seem to Stiles like they were keen on extricating themselves from each other’s airspace any time soon. Was three a crowd? Because three felt like an intrusion and he had yet to ascertain the intruder. The fact that there were two werewolves and a human was probably answer enough. 

“Soooo,” Stiles began, as he made sure his strings were tight enough. “How’s it going, Isaac?” Scott was waiting at the goal as Stiles and Isaac took turns practicing shots. 

Isaac looked at him oddly before he answered casually – as casual as a werewolf with a perpetually plotting smirk could _be_ casual. “Not bad. How about you, Stilinski?”

And last name basis, fine, sure, that wasn’t awkward at all. He huffed a breath and took the shot, which Scott predictably caught. “Perfect. Thanks for asking. Do you have a crush on Scott?”

Isaac, who had moved in front of him, whirled around with his eyes blazing and accidentally – that was debatable in Stiles’ eyes – thwacked him in the face with it. 

He fell on his butt unceremoniously, clutching his forehead. And _ow_ ; pretty pathetic reflexes, even for a human, not that Isaac’s were anything to boast about either.

“Keep your voice down, Stilinski!” Isaac hissed; eyes blazing briefly as he got his wolf under control. It was interesting to watch over all the throbbing pain because other than Scott, Isaac had developed some pretty decent control over his wolfy instincts because Stiles had been under the impression that Derek was a shit teacher and an even shittier Alpha. 

“You guys okay?” Scott called, taking his headgear off. 

Stiles waved dismissively. “Fractured skull! No worries, man.”

Isaac rolled his eyes and pulled him to his feet, nearly taking his arm out of its socket in the process. Isaac wouldn’t be winning any awards for courtesy any time soon, that was for sure. And really, he couldn’t afford any more run-ins with the law, especially with the Sheriff’s son. The liberty of that arrangement was useful sometimes. 

“So,” he panted, rolling his shoulder, “I’m guessing that’s a ‘yes’ then?”

“I said-”

“I heard you the first time, except when I didn't hear you answer the question, which, let me tell you, you’re obligated to tell me the truth and I don’t exactly need werewolf senses to tell if you’re lying.” 

Isaac looked a little constipated, like he wasn’t quite sure how to handle this gangly boy in front of him, like Stiles actually stood in the way of him and his ultimate goal: Scott. Heh, he made a goalie pun. Nice. But also kind of intimidating because Isaac could literally just tear him apart and run off with his best friend into the sunset but Stiles did like to think that Scott would have at least tried to avenge him. 

“We’re just friends,” he answered finally, and was it just Stiles or did the guy sound a little morose at his confession. Yeah, he clearly wanted in Scott’s pants. “I’m just getting to know him better.”

Stiles snorted. “I’m sure you are.”

And when Isaac made the shot with ease that only a werewolf could manage, Stiles allowed himself the brief moment of cold satisfaction knowing that Scott was still taken by Allison. 

 

The rest of the practice session was a complete downer, though. It started with Isaac asking Scott if he could practice tackling with him – so not subtle, dude – and despite himself, Scott seemed only all too eager to agree. That left Stiles sitting on the bench with a tattered copy of _Dracula_ , a book he’d never read but felt compelled to considering its status as a must-read classic. So far it kind of sucked but Stiles didn’t think he had ever picked up a book and _not_ finished it, no matter how boring or painful to read. The book had been the backup he’d hoped he wouldn’t need but Isaac’s presence made it a clear necessity. 

“I don’t like that book.”

Stiles breathed a short, mirthless laugh. “You and me both.” 

Derek sat down heavily next to him, eyes on the field. Stiles kept his focused on the words on the page – specifically the same line over and over again. He still wasn’t quite sure what it said. 

“Why aren’t you practicing with them?”

“Werewolves. Human. Super strong. Not so super strong.” Get the picture? It was literally right in front of him in a Monet-like display of hormones. 

“They hold back around you – especially Scott.”

As if he didn’t know that. 

“Well, duh, I was the one who trained him in the first place.” And maybe he wasn’t being as accommodating as he could be but frankly he wasn’t in the mood and Stoker was being annoying. He could try, though. It might actually make him feel better about himself. “I have chocolate in my bag if you want some.”

Derek seemed to pause before he casually – slowly and deliberately, as if waiting for Stiles to yell, ‘just kidding, don’t steal my chocolate, fiend!’ – reached into Stiles’ bag and pulled out a bar of milk and hazelnut. 

“Thanks,” he murmured, tearing off the wrapping and breaking off a piece.

“No worries, dude.”

Looking up, Scott and Isaac had resorted to play fighting on the grass and Isaac showed a surprising amount of strength – and nerve – by pinning Scott, who was laughing too hard to put up much of a resistance. 

“What’re you doing here, Derek?” he asked abruptly, with a frown, turning to look at him inquisitively. 

“Observing.”

One word did not a sufficient response make. 

“Observing...them?”

“Who else?”

“Why?”

Derek met his gaze, his green-gray-hazel eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You were right that day. About them hanging out together. Isaac said they were getting something for Scott’s mom.”

“Huh,” he huffed, “took you longer to catch on than I expected.” Usually Stiles was the last to know – in some cases it was Lydia – but for all that the werewolves seemed to wax lyrical about the importance of pack, Stiles wasn’t sure that any of them quite knew what they were talking about. Then again, as an outsider, perhaps it was something they could _feel_ and Stiles just didn’t have the canine senses to pick up on the happy vibes. 

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Pfft, I think you’re asking the wrong girlfriend, here.”

“No I’m not.” The firm retort made Stiles still in confusion. Stiles wasn’t the boss of Scott any more than Derek was. Derek didn’t seem to understand the fundamental concept that _friendships_ didn’t work on _control_. That was probably not his fault at all with the whole family drama and then the sister and the uncle drama – fucking creepy Peter – and then the whole Scott and Jackson drama, followed by Boyd and Erica’s brief desertion, the psychopathic Alphas and culminating in the crazy English teacher girlfriend slash Emissary serial killer. 

He felt a pang of sympathy that was disrupted by the Denial Pair striding up to them, looking all sweaty and yet still unsurprisingly good looking. The two of them had a disgusting glow that came from more than just exercise and Stiles almost groaned into his hands at the butterflies and rainbows. He flipped the book shut and grabbed the chocolate bar out of Derek’s hand, took a gigantic bite, and then handed it back to him. 

“You guys had fun?” he asked, kicking himself for how flat it came out. He was not mad. People couldn’t really get mad at those two babyfaces. 

Derek’s eyes flickered to him and then back to the pair who didn’t seem to take any notice of his tone and just nodded their heads delightfully. 

“We’ve totally got a game plan for next Friday,” Scott exclaimed, practically vibrating on the spot. Why did the boy have to be so damn cute? It totally upped Stiles’ guilt levels and washed the annoyance right out of him. 

Settling for a resigned smile, Stiles took a quick look at the time and stood. “Nice. I’m gonna hit the showers. I’m meeting Danny for a project later.” That wasn’t a lie – it was totally a project. He was also fairly certain his heartbeat remained steady throughout it all. He didn’t wait for a response, however, and just jogged back inside to clean himself up. 

Scott’s car, along with everyone else was gone by the time he came out again.

\--

Stiles sat on the counter of Danny’s kitchen, mixing the bowl of chocolate and peanut butter batter for the muffins they were making. The kitchen smelled heavenly after their first batch of vanilla cookies and the next set looked utterly promising if Stiles’ constant licking of the spoon was anything to go by. He was going to kidnap Danny and plant him in his kitchen back home and never let him leave because _ohhh_ , that tasted good. 

“Hey, Danny,” he called, sucking on his thumb. “I think we should date.”

The guy glanced up from where he was icing the now-cooled cookies, looked at Stiles for a long time and then went back to his work. 

“And why’s that?”

“Because you’re hot. And you bake like a boss.”

“Hmm.” Stiles actually perked up at the thoughtful hum. “Nah, not good enough.”

Stiles deflated and then prompted, “I’ll suck your dick everyday.”

Laughter was not the response he was looking for and hey, he was a human being too, man, with feels and everything. 

“You’re a blowjob virgin, Stiles.”

“Maybe I’m a natural,” he said with a flirtatious smile and an exaggerated flutter of his eyelashes. Danny laughed again, fondly this time, and then sidled over with a freshly iced cookie, which he brought to Stiles’ lips and _damn_ but that was hotter than it should have been with the taller boy’s knees bumping against his and his breath smelling of mint and cake. Despite himself, Stiles blushed, wide-eyed and kind of seriously turned on. 

“Tell me if it tastes good,” Danny murmured, gently pressing the treat between Stiles’ lips, placing his free hand next to Stiles’ thigh as he leaned against the counter until they were sharing the same air. 

Stiles flickered his gaze down to the cookie before fixing his eyes on Danny’s, taking in the deep, warm brown eyes that shone with mild amusement, as he took a deliberate bite. The texture melted in his mouth and he let out an involuntary moan at the flavour. 

Danny chuckled and took a minute step back. “You kind of make me wish you _were_ my type.”

“Babe, I am _everybody’s_ type. Just not everybody’s mine,” Stiles stated matter-of-factly, hopping off the counter and getting all up in Danny’s personal space because _yes_ , his Armani aftershave was delicious and he kind of wanted to lick all over that Springsteen jaw. 

He didn’t even feel weird about that sudden urge. _Everybody_ was a player for Danny’s team. And Stiles figured he had more of a running chance than anyone else considering that one time Danny propositioned him in the locker room when virgins were still being sacrificed. He only _wanted_ Stiles to think he was kidding. 

“But seriously? You don’t wanna, I dunno, practice making out with me before making that judgement?” 

“Just keep stirring, Stiles.”

“Fair enough.”

Stiles ended up going home late that night. They skipped dinner and went straight to eating those decadent muffins because apparently Danny had his cheat days as well and afforded himself those days because he had the metabolism of a crazy person. Stiles just tended to get a little soft around the middle every time he tried to indulge – and usually went overboard with the junk food so shame on him – had to spend at least three days detoxing. 

But on the whole it was a great evening. He had more fun in those few hours than he’d had at Lacrosse practice earlier that day, which wasn’t exactly much of a challenge when he spent most of it on the bench watching two wolves pulling each other’s pigtails. Wolftails. Whatever. 

\--

A couple of days later Stiles was driving around not so aimlessly again, this time with a specific goal in mind; a graveyard, as morbid and kind of disgusting as it was. And not the one that Isaac used to work at because Stiles had disturbing visions of a zombified Kate Argent rising from the dead and eating all their brains. Yeah, he was staying away from that live wire. 

The graveyard was as old as the crumbling church that once might have towered over it. Now, though, the roof had caved in and the bell tower was missing its bell, which Stiles could completely understand because, hey, _bells_. Fun stuff! The graveyard itself was overgrown and the headstones so crumbly or weathered that it was almost virtually impossible to make out any names or years, even with the occasional colourful rubbings he liked to do. And while the place did look like the setting for a nefarious necromantic plot, there was a distinct lack of black, billowing robes and creepy chanting, so Stiles felt relatively safe, if a little cold in his thin, blue jacket. 

The – illegally – photocopied book he’d brought with him – about necromancy, aptly enough – sat open in his lap with too many words written in Hellenistic Greek, Latin and Norwegian that he kept having to flip to the glossary at the back so he could write down and translate. Lydia’s amazing brain would have been useful right now had she not apologised and told him Jackson was going over to her place; gross mental image right there.

But with or without Lydia’s brain, Stiles made it a point to recall as much information about the supernatural and the magical as he could from Gerard’s bestiary because if the Argents took the time to research it, Beacon Hills was the brightest lighthouse this side of the country where all those fun and evil little critters would wind up. It was probably how the Hales got here in the first place. On another note, Stiles developed a morbid fascination for necromancy because Sauron was all kinds of incredible and it was a powerful reminder of his love for a lot of things Harry Potter – best book series _ever_. 

School that day had been a drag – their new chemistry teacher, however, had three times the likability of Mr Harris and actually seemed to _enjoy_ teaching them. There was also the minute fact that he hadn’t been thoroughly interrogated by his dad yet, so he didn’t have anything to fuel a sudden dislike of Stiles. 

Stiles gave it time, though. 

He nibbled on a ham and cheese sandwich, leaning against a headstone that might have once belonged to a Bertram Reed, all the while attempting to make sense of the chapter on astrological necromancy, which could apparently be practiced all the time as long as the moon wasn’t full or waxing. _What the fuck even._

Unfortunately, in Stiles’ mind nearly anything about the moon made him think of a certain pack of werewolves – a pack to which Scott was increasingly becoming a member of. Even Lydia was pack by default of Jackson and her own banshee business. The question of just how _pack_ was he was a bitter road to travel down but Scott had always called Stiles a masochist and the issue pertaining to his place amongst werewolves and other supernatural beings was a constant one that usually managed to twist its icy fingers a little deeper in his chest cavity, always making it harder to breathe. His usefulness to them was hardly a matter of debate when it came down to prepping them for battle with the monster of the week but there wasn’t really any place for him when the fighting started and Scott, bless him, usually shouted at Stiles to stay out of the way. 

Out of the way of danger or _his_ way?

He was jerked from his morbid ponderings by fox running across the brush ahead of him, a fat rat in its mouth, which, congratulations, buddy. 

Heaving a great sigh, he let his eyes drop close. Everything was all right, though, he determined to himself. Danny was keeping him company in the meantime and he’d do his best not to end up too clingy and irritate him before he could get in his pants. It was all a matter of time, Danny-boy. 

“Well, this isn’t depressing.”

Stiles’ head snapped to the side so hard and fast that it cracked out the crick that had been bothering him since that morning. 

“Cora!” His voice was _definitely_ not an octave higher than usual. It was just the cold. 

“The one and only,” she drawled, looking around like the place offended her. 

Stiles recalled asking another Hale the same question quite recently but it was a necessary repetition considering how far away he was from either pack’s territories. 

“What brings you here?” He barely made an effort to hide his curiosity as the she-wolf strode over to him, taking care not to step on any of the gravesites, which was an effort in futility when grass and weeds grew practically everywhere. 

“I was in the neighbourhood.”

That was pathetic. 

“Really. Tell me another,” he deadpanned, absently zipping a pocket of his bag closed. Her eyes traced the movement but she said nothing and plastered on an almost-real smile. 

“Derek went to your place but you weren’t there. He needs you to research something.” With her arms folded across her chest and an expression like she had infinitely better things to do than sniff him out in a graveyard, the Hale in her was clear as day and any traces of her disappearance for all those years completely wiped clean. It presented itself as a warm feeling inside and a soft contentedness on behalf of Derek, whose sense of family was slowly returning. Peter didn’t count because Peter was crazy. Period. 

“Research what?”

“He’ll tell you himself. We’re meeting him at the Friar’s Oak. You can buy me dinner in the meantime.”

“Oh, can I really? Well, that would be super convenient for you save for the small fact that it’s a pub and unless you were held back by four years, neither of us are allowed inside.”

She snorted and yanked him to his feet with the same arm Isaac nearly tore off him. 

“Yeah we are, as long as you don’t order anything that’ll get us in trouble.”

Jerking his arm back and rubbing his shoulder, Stiles gave Cora the stink-eye of a boss and asked, “Are you descendant of the Swedish Mafia or something? Was your entire family equally as extortionist?” And wow, he probably should have thought twice before posing that question but surprisingly, Cora just stared at him with a look that said, ‘you are so weird and a complete waste of time and space.’ 

“Actually, my mom would have just insidiously emotionally blackmailed you,” was her bland reply as they walked to his Jeep. “Which begs the question.” It really didn’t but who was Stiles to argue? “What the fuck are you hanging out in a graveyard for?”

Funny, he’d never actually heard her swear. Then again, he’d never really hung out with her one on one, save for that time she passed out at a very crucial moment in the history of all coming outs to his dad. 

“I’m necromancing.” He flapped the book around and fought a grin at her sharp look. 

Her lips parted to pose the obvious question but Cora stopped and looked at him oddly instead. “Can you even verbify that word?”

“Oh, grasshopper. You can verbify _anything_ these days.”

She held Stiles’ gaze for a long moment. 

“Huh.” And was that a hint of a smile or just an uncontrollable muscle twitch?

 

They didn’t end up going to the pub because, a) Stiles was driving the freaking Jeep and made a _wrong turn_ somewhere so, Cora, you should tell your brother we’ll meet him somewhere else, and b) pubs meant money and if Cora wanted him to pay for it they were going somewhere fast and cheap. Rogan’s it was! His salads sucked so he never brought his dad there, but the chilli-cheesy wedges were the best thing ever. 

Exhibit A was the way Cora essentially stuffed her face with the stuff, using each wedge to scoop up as much chilli cheese as those little widgets could support, and holding it above her open mouth in a move that was disturbingly and amusingly reminiscent of Scar and the mouse at the beginning of _The Lion King_. It was refreshing to see someone enjoy their food nearly as much as Stiles and Scott always did, mindless of manners and social etiquette – which, let’s face it, Stiles had ended up with the shallow part of that gene pool.

“Can we get extra jalapenos with that?” Cora asked their waitress, a small, Indian girl who looked a bit ill at the mess Cora had made with her first wedge carton.

“And extra cheese. Actually, just make it two large wedges with extras of everything important, four pieces of dragon wings for us to share and two cups of your buttered sweet corn.” He didn’t realise how hungry he was from that measly excuse of a sandwich earlier. 

“What he said.”

The girl pursed her lips and wrote it down, nodding as she left, casting several bemused looks behind her. Stiles just waved and sipped his Coke. 

Cora was fun when she wasn’t being too…pack-ish. It was like how when he managed to get Erica alone and she actually _joked_ with him and seemed to _like him_. Hormonal, fickle werewolves were a real piece of work, though, and while he probably shouldn’t have felt that need to roll his eyes at the fact that they were such a bunch of immature puppies, it was a natural and inevitable reaction when dealing with teenagers. 

“So,” he asked, chewing on a dragon wing, “what did Derek need me to look up again?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged carelessly, swirling around a wedge in the sauce. 

“That’s helpful,” he sniffed, annoyed. 

“Oh, don’t be such a little bitch. I do what my Alpha tells me. Why can’t you?”

“Because he’s not _my_ Alpha,” he sang, nudging her shin with his foot. 

“Is Scott?” she challenged, nudging him back – a little harder than he’d done, which, wow, _rude, lady_.

“Scott’s my best friend but no, he’s not my Alpha. Or if he was, he’s sorely lacking in the disciplinary department.”

“Ooh, alliterations – I love it.”

“And you just sounded disturbingly like Erica for a moment.”

She snorted, pulling her dark hair out of her face and tying it up with the swiftness and deftness that only a girl knew how.

“Erica’s a good beta despite her past mistakes. We’re _all_ better betas than before. Especially since the whole Alpha Pack deal. But at the same time _Derek_ is a better alpha to all of us.” She looked at him earnestly and beseechingly. “We can recognise when someone’s trying and my brother, for all his faults and baggage, is trying the hardest to get back on track with all of us.”

Stiles nodded slowly. “I realise that. It’s why he’s trying to work things out with Scott.”

“Precisely.”

He’d have to be blind not to see the changes in Derek – not to be able to see the way he held himself back when that infinite Hale temper threatened to decimate everything around them. Derek was trying and Stiles appreciated that well enough. So he smiled, albeit tightly, and said as honestly as it came, 

“I hope it works out for all of you, then.”

\--

Derek didn’t show in the end and didn’t reply to any of the texts Cora shot his way. It was also a school night, which meant Stiles had to get back home before his dad pulled out the big guns. 

“So much for being a better Alpha,” he sighed, falling backwards onto his mattress. “Your timing needs a little tinkering, dude.”

Chilling with Cora had been an eye-opener, though. She loved her brother and all her griping and criticisms were only meant to get him to improve, like the push that went to shove. And despite being the newest edition to the pack, she felt comfortable with them and apparently got along with Boyd the best.

Stiles wondered with a sardonic kind of humor how long it would take for Erica to either claim her territory or get Cora to join them in a little threesome fest. Somehow he doubted Derek would be particularly for that arrangement, not that Stiles could blame the guy for being an overprotective older brother; Stiles was pretty overprotective of Scott, which was why Isaac was, in inevitability, going to have to go through him and a certain deadly huntress. 

“Sorry I’m late.”

Stiles swung around with a yelp and threw a pillow at the window, watching in horror as it hit the Alpha square in the face. There were a few moments where Stiles stared at Derek and Derek stared back, wholly unenthused, and that was all it took for Stiles to burst into giggles. 

“I am _so_ sorry,” he chuckled, holding his hands up. “Majority of that _was_ your fault, though. Y’know, with the creepy creeperness that I’m sure my dad’s lectured me in regards to paedophiles before. Or paedo wolf in your case.”

Derek shot him a dirty look and Stiles batted his lashes, feeling a laugh tickling his throat. His smile slowly faded when he realised what Derek was wearing – a white shirt, a pair of smart, gray trousers and a pair of shiny black shoes that looked almost new. And damn if that shirt didn’t show off some incredible arms, especially with the way the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

“Wow, where did you just come from? And don’t say ‘from outside’ because I’ll swing another pillow your way.”

“Unless you want your entire room covered in feathers, I suggest you don’t.” Derek looked strangely uncomfortable as he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and tugged on the collar. “I was at work, though. I can’t use the inheritance for everything.”

That was totally unexpected because up until then Stiles had sort of imagined that wolfing out and Alpha-ing everyone _was_ his job, which was totally stupid because how would that apartment get paid for? An inheritance hadn’t even crossed his mind because inheritances only came up when long-lost uncles hit the grave and for some reason they held strange and unexplained affections for their loner nephews. Then again, werewolves: why _wouldn’t_ he have an inheritance? Seemed appropriate in the grand scheme of things. 

Then again, so was a restraining order.

He cleared his throat and sat down at his desk, attaining some sense of solidarity and control over his own space. 

“So, what’s the deal this time? Flesh-eating goblins? Hell hounds stealing souls? Roaches?” He seriously hoped it wasn’t the latter – roaches made him scream like a banshee.

“It’s been dealt with,” Derek said immediately. 

Stiles stared. “Okaaay. What was it?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Really? Because you sent Cora to look for me in a _graveyard_.” Sceptical? Stiles wasn’t sceptical. He was downright calling bullshit.

“What were you doing in a graveyard?” he asked, a curious mixture of careful and angry concern, demanding an explanation.

“Necromancing, but-”

“ _What?_ ”

“Kidding! Stop interrupting me!”

“You can’t joke about these things, Stiles!”

“Haven’t you known me long enough? I joke about _everything_ inappropriately, dude.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” he snarked, aggravated, and then reached into his jacket – which hand been hanging off one arm – pocket to throw something at Stiles, who may have flailed around before catching an extra-large packet of Swedish Fish and staring at it blankly.

“Uhhh.”

How’d he know? Stiles _loved_ Swedish Fish.

Derek looked away, frowning angrily – and was that a hint of embarrassment on his face? – at the window. “It’s for you,” he remarked informatively and, sure, thanks for that Sherlock. “You gave me chocolate the other day.”

When was that?

“Okaaay.” Derek still wasn’t looking at him and it only took a couple of seconds for it to click. “Wait. _Really?_ For real? _That’s_ what you were looking for me for?” Derek the Silent Stalker kept silent, his face turned away so his back was facing Stiles. “You sent you sister to look for me because you wanted to give me candy?” Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Does she know about this?”

Still silent, which was great. Real informative, buddy.

“I’m taking that as a ‘no’, in which case,” he glanced down at the packet of candy, tore it open and popped on into his mouth, “I’m not sure whether to thank you or apologise to her.”

With a roll of his eyes – Stiles swore that was a defence mechanism for people who couldn’t think of an excuse – Derek twisted over his shoulder and glared at him. “Do you really think I would have asked my sister to look for you just so I could give you candy?”

Stiles held his hands up. “Hey, I’m just going on the complete and utter lack of cooperation on your part to hold an extensive and explanatory conversation with me. The miscommunication is essentially always your fault, you know?”

“Words aren’t always necessary when you’re a werewolf,” came Derek’s blunt reply and Stiles did a double take.

“Ha! Was that an honest-to-God joke? I am im _pressed_ , man.”

Derek muttered something that sounded like, ‘doesn’t take much’ and then moved to leave.

“Wait! You still haven’t said what it was you had to look up.” And when did he become so clingy? Possibly since Derek Cottontail gave him candy, which was really nice of him for a change.

“I told you,” he said, glancing back, “it’s nothing to worry about.”

Stiles frowned at all the secrecy and felt a little left out because _hello_ , most of those wolfies would be _dead_ \- or just extensively maimed – if it weren’t for him and his tech-y magic. He moved to say so when Derek threw the pillow he hadn’t bothered to pick up earlier back at him, hitting him squarely in the face, just as he’d been hit.

It fell to the floor with a surprised _fwop_ , leaving Stiles standing there and staring at the empty space where Derek had stood a fraction of a second before. 

“Are you kidding me? _This_ is what we’re doing now? _Oh_ my _god!_ ” He marched to the window and leaned half his body out, catching a glimpse of a familiar figure disappearing from view over the awning. “You are _such_ an immature asshole, Derek!” He stopped, the flavour of candy on his tongue and then shouted again, “But thanks for the Swedish Fish, you fail wolf!”

Derek’s fingers reappeared again and his head rose above the edge of the roof. “You’re welcome,” he scowled, and then vanished again.

Stiles sighed, feeling ruffled and peeved, and closed the window, perplexed at the day’s events and still no less closer to figuring out what Derek’s deal was. “Whatever, dude.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter - it really meant a lot to me and is pretty much what made sure I uploaded this chapter tonight. Again, this is un-betaed so if you see any mistakes etc. please let me know. Also, I use primarily British spelling but as it is an American show, I'm doing my best to use American spelling because these things matter to me. British fandoms = British spelling; American fandoms = American spelling. Anyways, I hope you're enjoying the story so far and do let me know what you think, so that I can start damage control if you think it's crap. ;D


	3. Superfluous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is tired and neither massage class nor his dad are enough to fill the inexplicable hole in his life and Isaac only serves to gnaw at his edges even further. Also, Derek is possibly psychic. Or just a stalker. Neither are mutually exclusive.

Danny didn’t make it to class tonight and so Stiles had to partner up with a sweet-faced, chubby brunette and _shit_ her hands so soft Stiles was kind of afraid he’d end up breaking them. 

“You can go harder, you know,” she informed him with a grin. “My boyfriend and I practice this all the time.” 

Euphemisms came and went – went because she was kind of adorable and he’d feel like a bit of a perv joking with her like that, especially if she had a boyfriend. 

“Is your boyfriend here?” he asked casually looking around at their class – it was a small class today, with the heavy rain outside. 

“Hey, Shane,” she called softly, and a tall black guy looked up and waved at her with a big smile before going back to his partner. “So,” she began curiously, “where’s your boyfriend? Danny?”

Danny? Well, Danny was a sexy stud and all that and Stiles would totally be all up with that if Danny just gave into his baser instincts and mounted him or let Stiles ride him like a wild boar. But nope. That was a violation even Stiles had trouble consoling himself with. 

“Danny’s a friend from school,” he chuckled quietly. “My gay friend and all but still just a friend.” He paused in rubbing her fingers for a few moments and then admitted, “Although he’s totally missing out if you ask me. I’m quite a catch.”

She did a little giggle snort and they both went back to the class, quiet bells resounding from the speakers up front. Stiles allowed himself to fall into the soothing motions of his fingers across flesh, relaxing when it was his turn to receive a little pampering. 

When class ended he didn’t even feel like washing his hands; the scent of the lemon oil a calming balm to his cottoned brain. All he felt like doing was going home, taking a hot shower and collapsing into bed. The consistent sound of the heavy rain had always lulled him to sleep as a kid, a trait that continued well into his teens. His mom had always liked to sleep when it was raining heavily and the sky was dark and gray long enough warrant an afternoon nap. 

He was just _tired_. And school had been pretty shit with Allison dragging Scott out of school during lunch to make out with him somewhere and do fuck knows what else. Cora, Boyd, Erica and Isaac weren’t in any of his classes that day and even if they were, Stiles wouldn’t have been entirely sure what to break in as a conversation starter without sounding like a total dweeb. He’d struck up a conversation with Lydia during lunch but Jackson plopped himself down next to her a few minutes later and Stiles couldn’t really be bothered to put up with any of that bitch face, so he’d necromanced some more with his book in the library all through his free period. 

“Hey dad,” he called out once he’d reached home, the warm aroma of leftover paella still wafting from the kitchen. 

“How’s it going, son?”

His dad was at the table, in his pyjamas for once, with a spoon in one hand while the other nursed a cup of green tea Stiles had been trying to get him to drink. This was probably the first time the man had actually made it for himself voluntarily. 

“You’re looking very homey,” he commented with a grin, pulling off his damp jacket. “Taking a different shift?”

“Nope,” he said, taking a sip of his tea and grimacing exaggeratedly. “Taking time off. I asked Melissa to forge a doctor’s certificate.” At Stiles’ undoubtedly gaping mouth, he explained reassuringly, “I just needed a break, son. Nothing to worry about.”

Stiles could remember the last time his dad had taken leave – when _Mom_ had needed him. And his dad must have seen the stricken look on his face before he managed to hide it for he sighed and reached out to wrap his hand around Stiles’ wrist, squeezing gently. 

“Honest, kiddo. Everything’s good. I’m just tired. Kinda like how you look right now.” 

That was a diversion as much as a concerned observation and Stiles accepted it with gratitude and fatigue enough to sit down heavily next to his dad and dish himself out some paella from the saucepan in the middle of the table. 

“Long day,” he murmured, his nose feeling cold but his belly craving more attention for the time being. “And I didn’t even feel like I did much.”

“Ah. One of those days.” He poured Stiles some tea and Stiles was grateful to note that his dad had also put a squeeze bottle of honey next to the teapot, just for him. It was a far cry from the whisky and the beer that had once cluttered up the windowsills. He wondered if they were going organic for real and dreaded the day his father finally brought up veganism because _meat_ and _cheese_ and fucking _pizza_. Food for champions.

Honey and green tea must have had some kind of magical properties together for after he’d taken a sip, he felt his entire body relaxing into the chair and shared a smile with his dad, whose eyes crinkled in fond amusement. 

“So, uh, there’s a game tomorrow night. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. Heck, I might even come home early if the game’s going to shit. Boyd can always fill in for missing players.” He winked but it came off half-hearted and he hid behind a mouthful of paella. 

His dad looked at him for a long while, a myriad of expressions hovering behind his exhaustion and concern but in the end, he nodded understandingly. 

“Sure thing, kid. Do what you want.”

It probably would have sounded dismissive and irritable any other conversation, like a father giving up on his wayward child, but coming from the Overlord, he was sincere and accepting enough to allow him this one moment of reprieve. 

\--

Technically the game was great – they were winning and though only by a fraction, Stiles could totally appreciate the art of suspense and the thrill of a close one. What he couldn’t quite appreciate was the tag-team that was ‘Scisaac’ – as the student spectators had started calling them within the first half – and their two-man team of _win_. Jackson looked as perpetually put out as ever but Danny kept cutting anyone who got in Scisaac’s way off, shouting orders for the rest of the team to do the same.

Allison and Lydia stood behind the bench cheering and Lydia kept blowing kisses at Jackson, whose expression softened marginally before he got back into the game. Stiles, on the other hand, was on the bench, twiddling his thumbs and trying not to literally lose his head every time Coach Finstock grabbed him and shook him in either fear or joy. Stiles didn’t miss the high-fives and body-bumps between the two werewolves on the pitch, or the way Isaac slung his arm around Scott’s shoulders and pressed their foreheads together a few times that Scott managed to score a goal.

At a glance back, the last time Isaac had done it, it looked like he hadn’t been the only one to notice, if Allison’s speculative gaze was evidence enough. Stiles would know – his dad was a _sheriff_. He’d made it off the bench for the third quarter only to land back there again for the final one when Carson’s nose had stopped bleeding. And his indignation was completely justified when Scott hadn’t even passed to him and it had been up to Jackson – the irony of it all – who had passed to Stiles…who had then been forced to pass to Scott, waving and calling for the ball. And that was kind of the end of that.

Technically the game was _great_. It just wasn’t that entertaining watching your best friend be besties with another guy who was literally the same species slash genetic makeup as said best friend. In fact, it was a little revolting and Isaac needed to take a step back like, now. No seriously, stop hugging Scott every chance you get. Every heard of overkill? Werewolves did it all the time.

With a sulky not-pout, Stiles stood up as the whistle blew and pushed past the ecstatic spectators towards his dad, who was standing next to Melissa and clapping with noticeably less enthusiasm and looking over all the messy heads for Stiles, who waved to catch his eye. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he said warmly, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “Ready to get going?”

“Shower when I get home?” he asked hopefully, feeling the irrational urge to just snuggle up into a hug with his dad like he’d done as a teeny, little kid. 

“Stiles!” came Scott’s voice before his dad could answer and Stiles wheezed a little as he was pulled into an all-out werewolf strengthened hug that ended a little too soon for his liking. “We won!”

“Yeah, I kind of noticed that. Front row view and everything.” Normally Stiles wouldn't have done what he did next but the opportunity presented itself too beautifully – if a little sadistically – as Isaac came up to them, his eyes only leaving Scott to greet Melissa. And so, with deliberate slowness and the ease of a boy who knew his brother so well, he slipped his arms up around Scott’s neck and locked his hands together, tugging a little on the hairs at the nape of his sweaty neck. Isaac stopped, stiffened and stared. “And you were amazing, _baby_. Couldn’t keep my eyes off you. I’d totally try making out with you but I think _Allison_ would probably skin me.” Isaac’s eyes flashed at the pincer-sharp sound of Allison’s name and the dirty look he gave Stiles totally said ‘I know what you’re trying to do and I’m going to pull your vocal chords out through your mouth.’ _Try it_ , Cheekbones. Just for that Stiles whipped out his werewolf repertoire of knowledge and tactlessness and nuzzled Scott’s neck, sniffing appropriately over Scott’s laughter, his eyes never leaving Isaac’s. How’s that for payback, werebitch.

And then Derek was there at Stiles’ elbow, subtly pulling him away from his best friend, an unlikely and unwanted intercession between Stiles and Isaac’s growing aggression. 

“Hey,” he said to both Scott and Isaac, and there must have been some silent communication of ‘well done’ between them for the wereyouths looked at him, pleased, and then grinned at each other. 

Muttering a small ‘ugh’, Stiles extracted his arm from Derek’s gentle but firm grip and went over to his dad, who had hastily struck up a conversation with Melissa for the interim. 

“Stiles.”

“ _What?_ ” And there was no need for him to be snappy but Derek had totally wrecked Stiles’ master plan of Get Isaac to Attack Stiles so Scott Can Come to His Rescue and Beat Isaac’s Cheekbones Up.

Derek’s lips tightened briefly before his face smoothed out into Alpha Mode. One up for Derek. “Good job.” And even Derek must have realised what a redundant statement that was considering the fact that Stiles hadn’t even _done anything_ if the way his eye twitched was anything to go by. 

So he shrugged sourly, drawled a simple and uninterested, “Okay,” and strode off to his dad. That was a little _mean_. Oh well. 

Stiles drove them home a few minutes later with Stiles unable to feel even a morsel of satisfaction at his earlier success against Isaac – all because of stupid Derek and his stupidly chiselled face and domineering Alpha voice and _fuck him_. Seeming to sense his mood, his dad just squeezed his shoulder as they walked into the house and bid him goodnight. 

And the great thing about having such a perceptive father was the fact that if Stiles had kicked his side-table in a hissy fit before bed, he wouldn’t even think of mentioning it to him the next day.

\--

The annoying micro drizzle felt like a smattering of cold ants falling onto his face as he raced into a café in town before it really started to pour. He’d yet to finish translating the chapter on _Paganism and Celtic Necromancy_ and had already picked up another online text on Maenads, which he wanted to get started on ASAP because hey, you never know when hyperactive Old God worshipers decided to pull up into town.

A hot hazelnut mocha was perfect for the afternoon, save for the fact that when he’d looked for his usual seat, hot drink in hand someone had already taken his spot. 

“Are you freaking kidding me?”

Derek looked up at him and then to the empty seat opposite. Yeah, _no_.

“Are you following me?” he demanded, entirely justified with the question and attempting not to spill his drink everywhere. Everywhere that _mattered_ in any case.

Derek raised a brow that said ‘would I really?’ and Stiles wanted to send some facial gesture of his own that replied, ‘yes, yes you would, werefreak’ but wasn’t quite sure how to convey that with his hair sticking to his forehead and making him look a little like a wet ferret.

In the end he bit the bullet and slipped into the booth opposite his stalker wolf and folded his arms morosely. “Well, whaddya want from me?”

There was a beat before he answered. “You seem to have a problem.”

“I have various problems; you might want to be more specific. Do any of those problems include a stalking werewolf? Should I press charges?”

“I’m referring to the fact that you like to goad people on.”

“Goad? I don’t goad. Who have goaded recently?” He sipped his drink, feeling tetchy and uncomfortable as he tapped his foot incessantly. “Do you feel goaded? Goadified?” 

“I’m talking about the fact that you intentionally taunted Isaac yesterday without any regard for the fact that he’s a _werewolf_ who’s not completely in control of his instincts yet,” he accused with a heavy frown and a sharp point in Stiles’ direction. 

“Your point being?” And that might have been goading. But whatever; Derek would never risk a scene here.

Lips thinning in impatience, Derek curled his hand into a fist and leaned in closer to Stiles, dropping his voice low and threatening. “You know as well as I do that Isaac’s got more than friendship on his mind regarding Scott.”

“Which is totally weird and incompatible because Scott’s a potential True Alpha and Isaac’s a scruffy Beta and it kind of looks like Isaac wants Scott to roll over for him, which, I don’t think so, man.” Mouth, filter, there is none.

“And _there_ you go again, mouthing off and insulting werewolves; _stop_ insulting the werewolf, Stiles!” he hissed and as inappropriate as it was Stiles kind of wanted to laugh because that entire sentence, what even. And that Derek’s face currently resembled his Serious Alpha Macho Wolf face, coupled with a whole bunch of exasperation and disbelief made it even more comical. _The_ werewolf? Really?

“It wasn’t actually meant as an insult,” he placated, smiling behind the rim of his cup. “It was more of a…‘taunt’, I guess. Comes with the territory,” he sniggered to himself. Derek was completely unamused. 

“If Scott didn’t like the attention, he would have said something by now.”

Stiles’ eyebrows shot to his hairline and the laugh that escaped his throat was laced with something ugly and snide that he would later be ashamed of himself. “And since when are _you_ best friends with Scott, _Derek?_ Just because he’s decided to get a little chummier with you and your Snappy Seven doesn’t mean you know shit about him _or_ the people he associates himself with outside your little pack. Because at the end of the day, _pup_ , you just want him in for the power and stability that you sorely lack.”

Fuck. _Fuck_. None of that had meant to come out but speech was a one-way road with flashing warning signs that Stiles kept on driving past. The sharp criticism and hurtful comments often came as a surprise to a lot of people but he was no saint when the blood was high and he was on a roll. And a lot of the time he couldn’t even scrounge up an ounce of remorse. Now, however…well, a lot of that was completely uncalled for but apologies were so not his strong suit, which was probably why he found himself frantically reaching for his bag and hightailing it the fuck out of that quality establishment, into the pouring rain and then scrambled into his car within the span of thirty seconds, ignoring Derek calling his name.

Unsurprisingly, but surprisingly enough that Stiles yelped and threw himself back against his door and smacked his head against the window, Derek smoothly swung himself into the passenger seat before Stiles locked the door, a sense of urgency about him that made his heart rate accelerate. 

“Kidnapping! I’ll tell my dad!” As far as threats went that wasn’t the most original or the most accurate but he threw a gum wrapper at him anyway. “Get the fuck out of my car!”

“ _You’re_ still going to drive, idiot,” Derek grumbled, batting the wrapper away like an insect and slamming the door shut and people seriously needed to _stop_ hurting his baby.

“Fine! I’ll tell my dad you’re hijacking me in my car! Now get the _fuck_ out if you don’t want him to rifle your ass into the next century!” He couldn’t ignore nor control the undercurrent of inexplicable trepidation and was unsure as to whether it stemmed from the presence of a deadly Alpha in his car or the fact that an apology was dancing across the tip of his tongue that lacked any real sincerity because he was afraid for his _life_. 

“For crying- I am _not_ going to hurt you, I just want to _talk_!” Derek snapped, teeth gritted and eyes searching the ceiling of the car for a little patience. 

“Well, I plead the fifth and reserve the right not to believe you until I get home and insert myself into a circle of mountain ash,” Stiles replied stubbornly because Stubborn was his first name; Stubborn Stiles Stilinski. Best use of alliterations ever.

And shit, shit, _shit_ , Derek looked like he was 1000% _done_ with all Stiles’ shit. He was actually almost insulted that Derek hadn't gotten sick of it sooner.

In an extraordinary show of self-containment and will, Derek heaved a long, heavy sigh and rubbed the space between his eyes, giving Stiles a weary side-eye. “Stiles,” he said slowly, “I am almost entirely sure you know quite well when I’m about to inflict unspeakable pain on someone and when I’m…not.”

Which wasn’t reassuring at all, let’s be honest, because Derek’s actions generally spoke louder than his non-existent words and _yet_ …here he was, trying to defend himself from a very flouncy and eccentric _teenager_ whose emotions were currently flying all over the place. Fucking hormones.

Still, didn’t mean he couldn’t be diplomatic when the situation called for it.

“What do you want, then?”

Derek seemed to take that as the invitation it wasn’t, at least not really. “To talk,” he said, as if he were trying to calm an animal – wrong way round, doofus.

“About what?” Stiles didn’t miss a beat. They’d done their fair share of ‘talking’ already today and Stiles couldn’t exactly foresee any major character growth in the span of twenty minutes.

Here he hesitated and Stiles was sorely tempted to start shouting and thrashing and throwing an enormous temper tantrum to get him out of his car but the guy replied before Stiles could let out so much as a squeak. Not that it would have made any difference – Derek could probably bench press his Jeep to the freaking moon.

“Stuff,” he said finally and shrugged. “Things.”

Stiles blinked and then let out a burst of short almost-laughter. “Did you honestly just make a _Walking Dead_ reference there?” Derek’s eyebrow said, ‘do I live under a rock?’ and, well, he did live in an abandoned, burned down house for a few months so a rock wouldn’t really be that far fetched. “Okay, then. Uh, my place it is. But only because I’m feeling generous. Which I don't usually.”

And then, possibly the highlight of his day – _days_ recently, to be honest – Derek smiled, a bashful, kind of amused and exasperated little smile that made Stiles feel like a puppy who had just done something particularly sweet.

“Whatever you say, Stiles.”

“Damn straight, motherfucker.” 

They really needed to get a move on before Derek did something else like hug him, because Stiles doubted his body was ready for any of that. Not today, anyway. There was an entire training session of mental and physical preparation required for that sort of trauma. 

They made it to Stiles’ place in relative silence, the rain a constant and indistinct metronome against the roof of the car and one of Stiles’ mix CDs playing in the background that he couldn’t help but fidget with, when he’d heard a song too many times, or sing along – in tune at least – to when he really liked a certain one. Derek didn’t say anything the entire ride, mostly because he was too busy bitterly regarding his bedraggled state and wiping little wet leaves and dirt off his hands and onto his jeans. Suck it up, dude, Stiles wasn’t really any better and he actually had to _drive_. 

“No mountain ash?” Derek noted upon swinging through Stiles’ window because he was a fucking weirdwolf who was a bit of a stair and door-phobe, even when he was apparently invited into the house. And so maybe that only applied to vampires but _common courtesy_ – when one offers another the door, accept it, motherfucker.

“Spring cleaning.” He threw a towel at Derek and then dug around in his closet for some spare clothes. There was a particularly large, long-sleeved t-shirt that he may or may not have gotten at a thrift store when he’d intended to dress up for Halloween as a character from an Anime he’d been into at the time. Nowadays he just used it to sleep in. He vaguely wondered whether there was any leftover spunk on it because it didn’t look like it had been washed recently.

“It’s autumn,” he pointed out, accepting the t-shirt and looking at it oddly. His eyes darted back and forth between Stiles and the item of clothing before he shucked off his wet clothes and slipped Stiles’ one on. And if it was a little tight around the shoulders and arms, it was entirely Derek’s fault for having the physique of an actual gigantic wolf. Stiles had seen his full Alpha Wolf mode. Impressive didn’t even begin to cover it. Peter had looked a little sickly as a wolf – his mental state had probably been projecting.

“Autumn’s for losers.” And that made no sense and hadn’t even the vaguest correlation to anything said so far. 

He had just moved to the bathroom with an armful of clothes when Derek’s hands moved to the buttons of his jeans and he began pulling them off, grimacing at the way they stuck wetly to his skin. Stiles couldn't remember the last time he’d seen Derek’s legs but _holy shit_ , he really was carved by the Ancient Greeks because Stiles didn’t even know those muscles _existed_. His mouth went a little dry when Derek had to bend over to tug the last bit off his ankle because those black boxer briefs left nothing to the imagination and Stiles had quite a big one. Uh, _imagination_ , a big imagination. Clearing his throat as Derek glanced back at him, Stiles chucked him a pair of really big, maroon sweatpants, the origins of which were kind of elusive. 

“You can keep those – I don’t use them.” Before Derek could question the roughness of his voice, Stiles disappeared into the bathroom to get his clothes and his brain sorted out. _Stop imagining Derek naked_ , was the mantra that kept him focused, ironically enough.

Once he’d had his impure thoughts expunged from his impure brain, he dragged Derek’s paranoid self out of his room – his dad had finally lost his innate desire to give Derek hell every time he saw him but Stiles knew that was only because Derek had helped push his car out of a ditch that one time they were being chased by gremlins – and into the kitchen and forced him to make Stiles some hot chocolate to make up for the drink he’d had to leave behind, while he heated up the never-ending paella. Because unlike some nameless wolfies, Stiles was actually kind of polite. Aaand feeding him made up for the lack of verbal apology. 

“So,” he said, mouth full of paella, which didn't taste like anything as it was more for sustenance than anything else at this point, “what was it you wanted to talk about? Y’know, all the stuff and things.”

Derek wolfed – heh, funny – down his food at record speed, glancing up at Stiles from beneath those thick brows that Stiles felt like chewing on. He was an eyebrow boy. 

“About you,” he said, swallowing, waving his fork pointedly, “and Scott and Isaac.”

“What more’s there to say? I’m bored of this topic,” he groaned, slumping forward and nearly biting his tongue off in the process. Derek looked resigned when Stiles grunted at the pain and rolled his eyes. 

“Just…stop riling Isaac up before he loses it,” he said, as if talking about it was a great pain, which, it could have, because a teenage werewolf love drama fest possibly wasn’t high on his list of Things Derek Hale Actually Wants To Do With His Life.

“Isaac riles _me_ up,” was his classy retort. Real genius, that one. “He’s trying to rub it in my face that he’s a werewolf and that he could probably kill me and dispose of the body and then return to soothe Scott’s broken hearted soul with wolf sex.” He glared at Derek. “Not cool, dude.”

Derek frowned. “Do you really dislike him that much?”

Stiles sighed and his shoulders fell. “I don’t dislike Isaac. He just pisses me off. He’s like the lost, angry kitten who bites the hand that feeds. _I_ am a nice person and should be treated as such.” Derek looked like he was having a hard time trying not to refute that last statement, which, fair enough, Stiles has had his fair share of hissy fits and that sharp tongue of his has made _Scott_ flinch once or twice in the past. “Okay _fine_ , so I can be a bit of an ass sometimes but I’m still not someone he should feel the need to intimidate! There’s only so much growliness this face can make in response!”

It was Derek’s turn to sigh, though this time with a strangely…kind and _doting_ half-smile. “Would I really let anything happen to you?”

Stiles didn’t answer immediately and he felt his ears heating up the longer he kept his head down before he hastily smiled at Derek and said, “Not at all. You got my back, right?” But it turned out he hadn’t said that in time as Derek’s smile had slipped off his face to be replaced with an intense stare and set jaw that could have been a combination of hurt and disappointment or just that he’d bit into a peppercorn because Stiles might have stinted on the grinding.

It wasn’t that Stiles didn’t think Derek would actually stand by and let shit happen to him – but if it came down to a choice between him and Derek’s pack, it didn’t take a genius to tell how that would pan out. That and he might have still been a bit sour about the whole Gerard deal that one time, which wasn’t Derek’s fault but he’d thought that Erica and Boyd might have filled him in on who took a humiliating beating from an old man.

“I guess that wasn’t an appropriate question to ask, huh.” Derek looked down at the table ruefully, and then gave Stiles a tight smile. “Sorry about that.”

The nature of his apology was questionable to say the least, and Stiles still wasn’t sure what he was sorry about – there were _so many things_ \- but he figured he owed the guy something in good faith for his prostration before him and so he nodded and grinned back as freely as he could.

“Apology accepted. Do the dishes and we call it even.”

Derek made a small noise of protest but did as Stiles asked, which he didn’t actually think was going to happen, but hey, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth and all that. And though he had thought that Derek would have pranced off by the time they were done, he ended up following Stiles back to his room where he proceeded to browse through the shelf of notes he had labelled ‘ALL THE MAGICAL SHIZZ’ not as inconspicuously as he could have if Derek’s communicative brows were anything to go by. 

“Last time,” he began, inspecting Stiles’ notes on sirens – without permission – while Stiles lounged on his bed, awkwardly tugging at the hem of his own pair of sweatpants, “you invited me to go out with you.”

And _whoa_ , did he really? Because he was pretty sure he’d remember something as drastic and life changing as asking Derek Back-Away Hale out on a date. 

“Uh-”

“On one of your ‘adventures’ around Beacon Hills,” he added with a smirk over his shoulder and _no_ , he was _so_ not allowed to look at Stiles like that. 

Stiles narrowed his eyes defensively. “They’re more like mapping exercises than actual adventures,” he muttered, rubbing at his anklebone absently. “And the only reason I invited you was so that you didn’t think I was ‘up to anything’, quotation marks intended.”

“Do you really think I’m that much of a tyrant?” The utter honesty in his tone might have deceived his Betas at some point in life – not so much now considering how much he had failed at Alpha-ing – but Stiles knew better. He had totally mastered the art of deflection. 

“I think you’re capable of being an overbearing werewolf with social issues the size of Canada.” Stiles folded his arms. “I’m not doing anything to endanger your pack, Derek. I have _friends_ in your pack.”

“I never said you would,” Derek said calmly, with a shake of his head. “I just wanted to know if the offer still stood.”

Way to make him feel like a paranoid asshole. Stiles was officially the douche of the hour.

“Oh. Well.”

With a small smile and a quirk of his brow, Derek put the notes back in their rightful place and sat down opposite Stiles, the bed dipping towards him and drawing Stiles closer like a warm vortex of deep forestry and cool loam, wet and smooth in his nose. He looked open, too open, and it made Stiles inch back a little, uncomfortable under his cool scrutiny and uncharacteristic clemency. He felt too much out of his depth and the consistent oratory diatribe that would have flowed endlessly from his mouth at any other time ran dry. 

That was actually really frightening.

“I’ll come with you next time.”

Behold, the steady stream of unexpectedness. Life, what are you doing.

“Huh?”

“When you go exploring,” Derek explained, and Stiles felt a little insulted.

“Are you patronizing me? _Exploring?_ You make me sound like a three-year old.”

“Fine, not exploring.” And there was the sulky wolf Stiles knew and didn’t really love. “ _Mapping exercises._ ” 

Stiles studied him for a few seconds because either he was particularly thick today or Derek had actually volunteered to keep him company on his adventuring-exploring-mapping trips.

“Are you for real?” he felt the need to ask, because _seriously_ , this was Derek!

“Totally.”

Stiles pulled a face, his mouth open and ready but his brain wasn’t quite quick enough this time. 

“Wh- okay, first of all, don’t ever say ‘totally’ again because that was so weird, I can’t even. Secondly, _why?_ ”

Derek pursed his lips and nodded. “First of all; noted. Secondly; so that someone’s always with you in case you do something to break your neck.”

Insults. Insults all around. Freaking heathens. Motherfuckers.

On the other hand, Derek had proved decent company in the past and with the hiking and the trekking and the trudging through mud and water, Derek’s muscles could actually prove useful once his own human legs get tired. Ah, the woes of being an actual person.

“For real?” he asked again, in desperate need of strong affirmation. 

“I believe we’ve already established the answer to that.” Derek’s Mary Sue eyes rolled in their sockets but he didn’t look annoyed or fed up, which probably meant that he’d come to expect a lot of Stiles’ great character traits – or flaws depending on how one looked at it.

Stiles inhaled with the intention of calling bullshit some more but thought better about it lest their circuitous conversation continue on its endless path and none of the issues – Stiles still wasn’t entirely sure what they were exactly – get resolved.

“Well,” he waved one hand around, expressing his confusion and suspicion in the gesture, “I guess that’d be okay. If you want to. No pressure, man. The obligation is non-existent. Freewill bestowed upon you, wolfman.” The rambling was a personal time-extending device that one used sparingly lest the other party of the conversation realise the diversionary tactic and stop him halfway. He was kind of surprised Derek hadn’t interrupted him yet.

Instead, Derek had an expression of utmost dissection; like Stiles was a notably rare and illogical creature he didn’t know how to deconstruct without it blowing up in his face. 

“You never stop talking, do you?” he noted slowly, like the realization had just dawned on him, the knowledge gifted upon him from a light in the sky. Alien bastards.

Despite himself, he had to laugh, and sheepishly scratched his ear. “No shit, Sherlock.” 

Derek huffed a short laugh, shaking his head like he had just signed up for a therapy session with a pink elephant, and stood, the bed bouncing back to its original position once more and leaving Stiles oddly bereft of weight and balance. “Anyways. Text me before you head out. I’ll find you.”

There was something very _heavy_ in those few words and Stiles realised absently that he actually liked the sound of Derek’s speaking-like-a-regular-human-being voice rather than his Alpha voice, which was three octaves too angry and borderline rabid animal.

“Will do,” he replied, and Derek left a moment later with a brief nod and the swish of Stiles’ curtains. 

One of these days Stiles might actually remember to lecture him on the importance of using doors to enter and exit someone’s home, but for the moment he was too bewildered to do anything except lay his palm on the space Derek had vacated, his fingers soaking in the lingering warmth and frowning at the invisible puzzle that was Derek Hale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I am overwhelmed with the responses from you guys and I can't thank you enough but hopefully an extra long chapter is enough to convey my gratitude to all of you. A little bit of Derek and Stiles for you here, and I do hope you're all enjoying this as much as I enjoy writing this despite my continuous doubts regarding my own writing. XD I wasn't completely satisfied with this chapter because of reasons I can't really articulate at the moment but seriously, guys, keep your ideas coming because while I know how I want this story to pan out, I'm also willing to take ideas/subplots on board. I don't really foresee this being a very long story but I've said such things before only for it to literally blow up in my face in a giant word count that never ends. I actually DO want to finish this story at some point in my lifetime so I'm keeping the rambling to a minimum for now. ;) Anyways, do let me know what you think as comments are love and happiness rolled into a puppy pile, and I will see you with the next chapter!
> 
> P.S. It seems to be a thing on AO3 to post personal tumblr accounts so if anyone's interested, this is mine: http://owraithe.tumblr.com/ Go ahead and stalk me. Or don't. Whichever's best for you.


	4. Accessory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's one step forward and two steps back for the Hale siblings and sometimes Stiles just _can't deal_. And while he's got Danny, there's a certain other boy's attention he'd grateful for when shit goes down and everybody around him just seems to be one disappointment after another.

A few days after the event Stiles had dubbed ‘Hale Encounters of the Weird Kind,’ Stiles was at The Bell Jar again, this time the area clear of any werewolf threats – he’d done his rounds – and enjoying – as much as anyone would enjoy that movie - _Never Let Me Go_ , which was all kinds of depressing and heart wrenching and at the end of it he still wasn’t sure what it was all supposed to _mean_. Still, he kind of wanted to make out with Andrew Garfield, as irritating as his character in the movie was, because the guy was kinda cute and had a funny smile. Aaand he wanted to nom on those eyebrows. 

Om nom nom all the way down to that yummy mou-

“Stiles?”

He blinked, mouth full of chocolate muffin mush. “Gwah?” So much for doing rounds.

She stopped short, her mouth turning down in disgust. “Whoa, mouth closed, man.” 

He swallowed and took a swig of water to clear any remnants from his teeth – gross, yes, but Cora wasn’t someone he felt the need to impress with common etiquette. He’d seen her throw up her fair share of black ichor, some of which had landed on _him_. 

“Stiles!” another surprised voice popped up and he turned to see Scott bounding across the street with – lo and behold – Isaac in tow, hands forever in the pocket of his jeans and looking like he was too cool for the entire world. A little less arrogance than before, though, which was a promising character development. 

He eyed the three of them with no small amount of forced cheer and waved one of his awkward, full-body waves, even going for a little bit of eye contact with Isaac, who just kept strolling like a fucking stroller. Whatever; Stiles tried.

“H-heeey, guys. What’s going on?” Seriously world, what was going on because _what is his luck these days even?_ This was definitely one of those meet n’ greet n’ dash kind of situations except for the gutting fact that all three of them could outrun him in seconds. Seriously, three steps and you’re down. Like baseball. Only not. Cheekbones was all snide and careless, Scott was all puppy-dog eyes and delighted grin and _why_ , boy, are you so clueless? Much to his chagrin, Cora looked back and forth between Stiles and the other two, her lips twitching minutely but without any of the amusement Stiles had often associated with her. Instead, there was speculation in her brown eyes and a flicker of recognition – recognition of _what_ , Stiles wasn’t sure. 

Isaac casually – pfft, yeah right – swung an arm around Scott’s shoulders, leaning his substantial weight against his best friend so Scott had to brace himself closer – right into Isaac’s slimy, pervy, handsy hands. _So not subtle!_ It was embarrassing to watch, really.

“They’re doing food shopping,” Cora intercepted before either could answer. Scott didn’t look too put out, though, and was busy poking Isaac in the side and receiving funny faces for his trouble. _God_ , they needed to get a room. “Well,” Cora said, watching them with her nose scrunched up as if there was a particularly nasty stench around, “they would be if they’d stop flirting with each other.” 

Well said, Cora! Stiles gave Isaac a pointed look but the boy completely ignored him and wrapped his hand around Scott’s wrist, tugging him towards the supermarket. Fucking friend stealer. Then again, Scott wasn’t exactly putting up much of a fight and Stiles kind of wanted to swing a shovel at his head because _whose side was he on?_ Traitors. The lot of them. Well, only Scott really. And Melissa. And Alli-

“Oh, wait! Stiles, could you give Allison a message for me?” 

Stiles would have paid _money_ just to get a copy of Isaac’s face right then and the rigid way he held himself at the mention of his apparent rival. _Such a drama queen,_ he thought with cold amusement. 

“Sure thing, buddy. Anything for the happy couple.” He grinned widely, very much aware of Isaac’s darkening aura. Tough luck, motherfucker. Although, the only reason Scott was asking him was because he and Allison were in the same group for a math project i.e. the most redundant class to have a project for considering all they really needed was to tap out on the calculator, put their results in a spread sheet and stamp both their names on it. But he digressed, so anyways…

“Thanks, man. Tell her I can’t make it tomorrow night,” he stage whispered, looking like a bit of an idiot with his hand around the side of his mouth. He snorted fondly and wanted to shake his head because, what was his friend, even? Who even did that anymore?

But because Stiles was feeling extra generous this fine evening despite having walked into a bunch of individuals he’d spent the past few months avoiding for risk of mental breakdown, he agreed and waved Scott off, leaving him with Cora and her muscles and ‘I’m onto you’ expression. 

“So, uh, you’re not helping out?” he coughed and she rolled her eyes and punched him in the arm before slinging her own arm through his and pseudo-kidnapping him. Stiles kind of wanted to thank her because it suppressed his urge to twist his head around and send a rude gesture to where he could feel Isaac’s heavy gaze on his back. 

But he was _better_ than that.

“They’re shopping for Scott’s mom,” she explained, her grip firm but not bruising. “I just happened to run into them. But I’m kind of glad I ran into you, actually; been meaning to talk to you about something.”

And usually that came out as a threat because Stiles had done something stupid for the sake of someone from the pack but he was quite certain that his existence around Beacon Hills had been pretty low key as of late so unless Cora held grudges the size of Alaska and was violently averse to Stiles giving her mouth to mouth that one time, he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Unless, of course, Derek opened his mouth about Stiles’ outburst, in which case he kind of wanted to commit _hara-kiri_ because those Hale brats were fiercely loyal and fiercely terrifying when they wanted to be.

“That being?”

She suppressed a smile, glancing at him from the corner of her eye as if she knew exactly what was going on in his noisy mind, which wasn’t that far fetched but Stiles liked holding out for a little hope every now and then. 

“When’s the last time you had a workout?”

Stiles stopped short. “A _what?_ ”

 

Which was how, half an hour later he found himself panting and wheezing behind Cora, his backpack left at the foot of a tree as he ran around the woods with her – it would have been pretty sexy in any other context but he wasn’t werewolf enough to glam up a workout session like the rest of them. The best he could do was get all red and puffy and his skin would itch because sweat and eczema didn’t really mix and he’d been lax about using his prescribed cream on non-lacrosse days.

There was also his notable lack of night vision, which resulted in mud, leaves and loam all over his clothes and hands and in his _mouth_ , which just, he didn’t want to talk about it because it was embarrassing. 

“Must we do this,” he wheezed, “so late at night?” He choked and hefted his backpack. “Also, must we do this _at all?_ I’m _tired!_ ”

“Don’t be a baby!” she called over her shoulder and Stiles was partially dismayed, partially pleased to see her wide smile. She had a nice smile, he thought with small chuckle. “And we’re doing this because once you got home you’d stuff your face in a book until you fell asleep on it.”

Accurate. Almost too accurate. 

“Have you been spying on me?” he exclaimed with incredulity. 

“ _No_ ,” Cora laughed, leaping gracefully over a log. “I just know you well enough!”

With a groan, Stiles continued to jog after her, grateful when her pace slowed according to his own stamina – or lack thereof – until they were shuffling along the underbrush, Stiles coughing with fatigue. It was a nice night – cool and clear and quiet unlike the rushing in his ears. 

“Oh my _god_ , you sadist,” he managed blearily, his legs on fire and his arms and body heavy as lead. “I hate you forever.”

“No you don’t,” she quipped, looking pleased with herself and so in shape and cool that he kind of wanted to dropkick her out of spite. They kept walking, slowly trudging back to his car in calm companionship – the kind of companionship he realised he hadn’t had in a while as Derek didn’t count with his moodiness and weirdness and spontaneity that rivalled his own. “Why’d you go alone? To the show, I mean?” she asked suddenly, seeming genuinely curious. 

He looked at her, confused. “Whom else am I supposed to go with?”

The look she shot him was laced with irritation. “Your _friends?_ ”

“Scott’s always busy with pack stuff that I didn’t bother to ask,” he shrugged, trying to make light of it – it worked for the most part and he’d even learned to stop being bothered by it. “I think Danny’s out clubbing again.”

“What about your _other_ friends?” she pressed as if hinting at something that he was so close to grasping. 

Huh?

And then it hit him and he started laughing, genuinely amused. “Well for one thing, Lydia’s dating Jackson like, 99% of the time, and for another, Jackson’s a douche and we don’t get along unless we’re out of each other’s sphere of auditory, oral, nasal and personal contact.”

Cora’s face was screwed up in the way that clearly meant she had no idea what he was talking about. “Nasal?”

“That’s more part of his skillset on the days he’s not wearing too much aftershave,” he explained with a roll of his eyes. “I’m surprised he hasn’t completely overpowered your werewolf senses yet because I’d kick him out of _my_ pack for smelling like the ground floor of Macy’s.” He gave a relieved cry when his Jeep came into view and sort of hop-skipped towards it and scrambled inside before Cora could tell him they were going to do burpees or something equally suicidal. Fortunately, Cora followed at a more sedate pace, a warm shadow cast against the backdrop of the woods.

Slipping into the passenger seat with casual ease, she looked at him seriously, a small frown on her face. “You…deflect a lot, huh.”

“I wouldn’t really know; Scott paid more attention to my conversations than _I_ did.”

“You also talk a lot.”

He hummed in solemn agreement. “Verbal diarrhoea syndrome. Affects one in forty.”

She laughed at that and Stiles counted it as a win for a successful evening, even if she did almost make him choke his own lungs out. “Well, next time you can ask _me_ , duh. Even if your taste in movies is kind of questionable and cringe-inducing,” she added as an afterthought. 

He narrowed his eyes at her, starting the engine. “There is _nothing wrong_ with movies that make no sense.” He paused and then added, “Unless they really do suck. I’m just broadening my horizons.”

She arched a single, delicate brow and did this expressive blink that said ‘whatever, dude, whatever helps you sleep at night,’ which, _rude_. But as he pondered her offer – self offer? – he figured it’d be a good opportunity to branch into Hale family territory – as long as Derek didn’t think he was trying to hit on his sister, which would be all kinds of terrifying and needed immediate clarification.

“Wait, invite as in friendly invite, right? Because I don’t want to become werewolf chow for mistakenly being seen as hitting on the untouchable younger sister who’s not allowed to date until she’s forty.”

“Don’t worry,” she smirked, “I’ll protect you.”

“That doesn’t answer my question! Am I or am I not in danger of having Derek Hale come after me fully wolfed out? Because I like you, Cora, I really do. Just not enough to die by your overprotective brother’s claws. I’m a delicate human, remember?”

“I think you’ve disproved that theory enough times,” she pointed out, which was actually really nice of her and wow, since when had Cora Hale been anything other than _grrr?_ “But _fine_ , for your own sanity, I will explain to Derek that I’m apparently not pretty enough to be asked out by Stiles Stilinski and am therefore taking what he’s willing to give me by hanging out as friends.” That pout wasn’t fooling anybody. Except Derek, possibly, the biased asshole. “Will my weak heart ever be able to handle the rejection?”

Scratch that, she was a demon in wolf’s clothing. Which didn’t even make sense, but whatever, he was putting himself in mortal danger over a pretty face and manipulation that only a woman knew how to pull off. Score one for Cora and zero for Stiles. Such was his life.

“Just for that we’re watching _Alien: Resurrection_ next week. I hope you have nightmares about werebabies ripping your belly open.”

“Unlike you, though, I’d probably survive,” she sniffed, with a smug smile.

Touché. 

\--

It ended up being easier for Stiles to get a hold of Derek despite his initial apprehension. He just gathered himself as calmly as he could manage while flying on a slightly higher dose than usual of Adderall and snapped his phone up off the bed, tapping out a discordant but comprehendible message to The Alpha Wolfman and then staring blankly at his computer as he waited for a response. 

Said response came five minutes later. 

_Meet you in 20._

And wasn’t that inspiring. Score another for Derek’s verbosity. 

Getting his gear ready for Adventure Time – whatever, so he was a five-year old at heart – Stiles felt an odd thrill of excitement as he all but bounced down the stairs, emergency mini flashlight in his mouth while he pulled the roadmap out of his bag. 

“We’re going on an adventure~” he sang under his breath, briefly wishing Derek’s name was actually Charlie and that he was a mystical being a little closer to the _equus_ family and with a deadly horn in the middle of his head. But growing a horn during a shift sounded kind of painful despite rapid healing and Stiles had visions of said horn accidentally growing inwards and impaling him through the head and he positively doubted that head injuries were part of the self-healing repertoire.

And then Derek arrived, looking heavy browed and scowly as usual – less on the scowl, more on the heavy-browed, but hey, everyone had good days – and the pang of embarrassment that he’d managed to suppress rose to the surface and he felt his face burn as if it was three seconds away from exploding. 

“’Sup.” He cleared his throat and raised a hand in greeting, practically stuffing his face in his bag to hide his flush under the guise of re-checking his supplies. Derek would have had a thing or two to raise his eyebrow at said supplies that included three bars of chocolate, a bag of sour cream and onion chips, a jar of spicy dip and an extra-large bottle of Cherry Coke. 

Derek made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and Stiles’ head snapped up, eyes narrowed and scrutinising but the guy was already rounding the other side of the Jeep and jumping in. 

Groaning to himself, Stiles realised too late how many levels of weird and uncomfortable this was probably going to be.

He cleared his throat again, eyes on the road. “Turn to page seventy two. I’ve marked the spot we’re heading to with a smiley face.” 

After a beat, Derek did as he was told, refraining from asking Stiles the ultimate question of why he didn’t just use GPS – because my phone’s broken, asshole! Conversely, he was a decent passenger and navigator and only growled at Stiles twice: once when he braked too hard after a bunny hopped across the road, and twice when Stiles reached across Derek and into the glove compartment for one of his mix CDs and had accidentally knocked Derek in the nose when he drove too fast over a speed bump. 

“So what’s this place supposed to be?” he asked after some time, a little bit of E.S. Posthumus playing in the background. 

“Hm? Mm. We’re looking for a lake,” Stiles murmured distractedly, a short book on kelpies open in his lap. His dad would have his license shredded for that misdemeanour. 

Derek twisted his neck slowly and rather creepily, actually, like in those horror movies where everybody stops in their tracks and turn to slowly stare at the main character who at this point has nowhere to run and is about to get eaten by a horde of possessed extras. So Stiles kept his eyes ahead even if he could make out the unimpressed and cautious expression on Derek’s face. 

“Why are we looking for a lake?” And yes, that tone was definitely Derek’s patience suspended on a strand of hair because Stiles had neglected to mention that he might’ve been looking for a little more than fresh air. And cool, rhymes!

“Becauuuuse, we’re going to check out the scenery?” he said slowly as if talking to a child, while simultaneously shifting his knee so the book in his lap flipped closed. 

Too late, though, because suddenly Derek’s hand was _in his lap_ \- again, like most situations in Stiles’ life, not as sexy as it sounded because Stiles had the book trapped between his knees, refusing to let it go as Derek adhered to the human code and pulled at it without using his freaky werewolf strength. 

“Have you seriously been going around _looking_ for creatures that could potentially kill you? What the hell are you trying to do? Build a menagerie?” Derek demanded, finally pulling the book free. 

“Thief!” he wailed, trying to grab the book back with one hand. “If you want to back out now, you’re so welcome to get out and I’ll do this myself!”

But Derek was having none of it and he waved the book and the map in the air. “This, Stiles? This is called _looking for trouble!_ Literally! It is also incredibly _stupid_ and I’m amazed you aren’t dead yet.”

And that was uncalled for because he wasn’t _that_ brainless or suicidal. 

“Do you seriously think I’d go looking for supernatural beings without backup? I’ve been meaning to check this place out for ages. You just volunteered at the right moment,” he defended, feeling put out and insulted. “Besides,” he went on, calmer this time, “we don’t know we’re going to find anything.”

Jaw hardening for a moment, Derek flung the book back into Stiles’ lap and huffed, folding his arms. “And it is that kind of blind idiocy that’ll jinx us.”

“That’s why I’ve got you,” he quipped lightly, sitting a little straighter as if his posture equated to the amount of control he had over the situation. “And the crowbar in my bag,” he added hastily at Derek’s eternal scowl. What? He had utter faith in Derek’s ability to rip a kelpie’s head off but his reactionary times were ultimately lacking and Stiles was more of a swing first ask questions later when he wasn’t in danger of being mauled to death kind of guy.

It was a method of survival. The zombie apocalypse would have _nothing_ on him. 

“You,” Derek began, sounding exasperated, “are such a strange person.”

And, _ouch_. 

“Real classy, Derek,” he sniped, giving Derek the hairy eye. “Class A complimentary, dude. Gold stars all around.”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” he griped back, not looking at Stiles, annoyance evident in his gruff tone. “It was just an observation.”

“Which makes things _so_ much better.” And with a roll of his eyes he averted his attention back to the road, following Derek’s occasional directions whenever his howly companion piped in. 

All in all, though, it was a decent drive, with Stiles singing to himself as usual and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. A single glance in Derek’s direction showed the werewolf relaxed in his seat, his own fingers tapping a beat against his thigh. He was wearing his ubiquitous black jeans – fuck, those were nice – and that green t-shirt which Stiles quite liked under his leather jacket. Stiles, on the other hand, had a puffy parka in the backseat that made him look like a shit-green snowman depending on the number of layers he wore underneath. So nope. No classiness or fashion on his end of the street. And his inadequacy meter rose by one more notch, which, just, fabulous. 

The drive up the hills – literally off the beaten track or the scenic route depending on who was asking – took another hour. It was the opposite direction of the Preserve and Stiles wondered whether they’d be able to spot it in the distance if they stood at the top of a ledge with a view of the city between them. 

The march towards their intended destination was only a fraction of the time but felt longer, though, and was a silent power struggle on who got to stay in front and lead and who had to follow and involved lots of shouldering each other out of the way and low-toned arguments on who had the map or who knew how to navigate forests better. Sunny side up though, was that Stiles wasn’t sure he’d ever get over the sight of Derek’s firm ass as he climbed over a ridge in front of him, pulling himself up with the aid of the mossy, aerial roots of a large tree. It was literally full-on in-your-face action and close enough for Stiles to just put his hands out and grab onto those yummy looking globes and possibly give a little squeeze just to get the feel of them. Which he obviously didn’t do because despite evidence to the contrary Stiles actually had a strong sense of self-preservation; a notion he seemed to consistently need to reinforce lately.

But seriously. _Dat ass_. It was jerkoff material for a week. 

“So, I didn’t get to explain to you earlier,” he blurted by way of distraction from those tempting cheeks of beauty and sin, “but I’m not _actually_ looking for kelpies in particular.” He continued hastily when Derek shot him a disbelieving look. “No, seriously, it’s probably a long shot. Like, _super_ long. Like, _you_ wouldn’t even be able to run that far kind of long.”

“Wanna hurry up and actually say something relevant before I take you up on that challenge?” Derek snarked, remaining focused on his task. 

Impatient much? “ _Well_ ,” he continued, huffing, “about a hundred years ago there apparently used to be wild horse sightings and unless I’ve got my geography suckage on, this wasn’t exactly horse country back then. There were only a handful of sightings but they were enough to become part of Beacon Hills’ Unexplained Armoury of Weirdness.”

Derek made a disparaging noise and shook his head, hopping over a stump of a tree like a vaulting horse. “Let me guess; your immediate conclusion was that _kelpies_ had moved into town.” The note of condescension was clear enough over the sound of Stiles’ heavy breath and he scowled at Derek’s back, flipping him off out of habit. 

“I suppose you could nutshell it like that considering that there’s reportedly also a body of water nearby,” he snipped sourly. “Now, if you’re done being pissed off at me-”

“I’m _not_ pissed off at you, Stiles,” Derek exclaimed with a huge, incensed exhale – haha, that was funny – rounding on Stiles and throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. 

Stiles narrowed his eyes, scrutinising and distrustful, stopping in front of him. “You’re not?”

“Concerned and understandably wary about what we might be walking into is pretty much what I’m feeling right now.” Sassy Derek was worrying. Sassy Derek was accordingly also kind of funny. 

And so, Stiles really couldn’t be blamed for doing the ‘Z’ fingersnap and saying, “Oh no you did _not_ just sass me.”

Which was definitely not the right time to execute such a gesture when Derek looked ready to throttle him. Which _also_ meant that Derek had been lying about not being pissed off at him. Moral of the story? Derek was a lying liar. What a jerk. 

Stiles told him as much. 

“You’re a jerk. And a lying liar.”

He received the stink-eye in response, Derek looking like he could now believe this knobbly kid in front of him was even _deigning_ to speak to him, let alone insult him with a pathetic ad hominem that Stiles internally cringed at. 

It wasn’t one of his finest insults. 

“And _you’re_ an idiot.” Neither was that. Stiles thought he caught a flash of mirth in Derek’s expression before it reformed itself into its usual Alpha Male Assholiness and he schooled his features back again. “But I agreed to accompany you so we’re going to go and look for your little lake, snap a few pictures, and then get the hell out of here. And no more creature hunting after this!” he snapped, prodding a threatening finger into Stiles’ chest. 

Stiles stood there blinking, watching as Derek whirled around and marched off, and a surge of anger and indignation rose up within him like a tidal wave because who the _fuck_ did Derek think he was and where the hell did he get off telling Stiles what to do? There was a moment where he wanted to scream just that at the top of his lungs and then rage some more at what dickheads his entire pack was – Cora and Erica had only recently stumbled onto his good side but that could change at the drop of a hat. But almost as soon as it came, all the anger bled out of him, leaving a heavy sediment of bitterness and irritation upon realising that he could have just _not_ invited Derek at all. He could have just saved himself the trouble and the extra time and just dealt with it himself, like he had always done. And right then he just wanted Derek _gone_. 

Closing his eyes and breathing out through his mouth, Stiles took himself back to the massage room and the smell of lemon oil and lavender oil, to the feel of Danny’s hands on his feet, to his own fingers pressing into his partner’s facial pressure points and the soft, hollow sound of bells and deep drums. What he’d give to be there right now. But he was nothing if not a trudging soldier and the situation called for him to just _do it_ , even if it meant having to plough through with Derek the Menace. 

Even if it meant opening his eyes to Derek’s tense back and the wary twitches at every sound. For all his bravery Derek hadn’t signed up for anything potentially dangerous and supernatural and Stiles had just thrown him in the deep end _again_. Pushing aside the flush of shame, Stiles jogged after him, feeling sheepish and awkward all of a sudden as he caught up and strode alongside him. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head. Derek didn’t say anything at first, but Stiles felt a coil of nerves unwind as Derek’s posture loosened up through the corner of his eye. 

“Sure,” he replied in an equally low voice that held none of the frustration or ire it did a few moments ago. “We’re still not staying too long, though,” he warned, glancing down at him briefly and Stiles nodded in quick agreement because, hey, maybe he needed to bend a little on this one. 

“Okay.”

He was the object of Derek’s suspicion for a few moments longer before the Alpha in him seemed satisfied that Stiles wasn’t going to put up a fuss later on. “Good.”

Though the sky was overcast there were intermissions of buttery sunlight that were more warming to the spirit than the skin, and on one occasion caught Derek’s serious eyes, giving them an opalescent, green-grey sheen that Stiles found himself transfixed for a moment longer than appropriate. And if he didn’t feel inferior enough, while Stiles breathed heavily and grossly beside him, Derek and his inner wolf were in their element, striding along with the ease of a gazelle. Or a wolf. Whatever. He felt about three parts jealous, one part resigned as he glared at his muddy shoes, wondering why he hadn’t just taken Peter’s offer and then killed that son of a bitch after because running through the woods _with_ the gang would be a million times more fun than scuffing his shoes on a tree and taking care of seven sets of spare clothing. Derek had called those nights Drill Nights and Stiles had made an executive decision not to turn up after the fourth time because waiting around for three hours of that shit was fucking boring.

He hadn’t been sure which was worse, though; the fact that he’d been there only to play coat hanger or the fact that no one had asked him to come back and join them after he’d decided not to. 

But, he’d moved on and massage class was his new therapy _and_ he got to ease out any bodily aches and pains and keep his mind off the pack. 

So this whole ‘hanging out’ with the Hale siblings no less, given that Scott had essentially forgotten about him, was a little disarming and Stiles wasn’t altogether self-assured enough to maintain a steady conversation _or_ a deeply companionable silence as he was able to with Scott. The balance of speech and zipping it was a fine one that he’d yet to learn the art of when it came to Derek Hale. At least Cora was a little easier to handle because being made fun of wasn’t new to Stiles and he knew she didn’t mean it patronizingly. 

When in doubt, though, impress people with knowledge!

“I didn’t get to finish explaining earlier about why I think kelpies live here,” he blurted, eyeing Derek cautiously. When the guy remained silent, Stiles took it as his cue to continue. “Well, if what I learned on Google is true, most lakes form on low-lying ground and we’re in a _valley_. Unless it’s a seriously gigantic lake it probably would have dried up by now.” Feeling proud of himself for that tidbit, he grinned. “So I think it’s a magical lake,” he declared with gumption, fingers splayed in front of him. 

Derek frowned, maintaining his pace. “Huh. Maybe some woman will appear out of its depths and hand us a sword to vanquish all evil.”

Stiles gave that smug face a dirty look. 

“Ha ha. That’s hilarious. You’re really killing me with the deadpan. Smacked me right over the head.”

Derek huffed a laugh. “As far fetched as your theory may or may not be, however, I really hope we _don’t_ find anything.”

“I neither agree nor disagree. I find the prospect of you being dragged into a magical lake by a deadly horse quite exciting.”

Derek looked ready to retort when he stilled all of a sudden and Stiles wondered for a brief moment whether he’d insulted the big bad wolfman and was ready to apologize when Derek’s hand snapped around his wrist in a vicelike, bruising grip. 

“Stiles,” he whispered, cocking his head around like he was listening for something. It looked more birdlike than wolfy and Stiles had visions of Derek turning into a peacock because his brain just worked that way. “I hear something.”

The balloon of excitement burst and he started jumping on the spot, demanding in a fierce hiss, “What? Horses? Water? Derek, tell me!”

After a long moment, Derek looked down at Stiles intensely, his green-grey eyes gazing at him as if he’d just seen him for the first time. In a fraction of a second his face smoothed out into its usual nonchalance. 

“Boyd just pulled up in my Camaro.” 

And just like that the excitement whooshed out of him and he ripped his hand away from Derek’s. “ _What?_ ”

“Erica, Cora and Isaac are with him,” Derek shrugged as if he hadn’t just been psyching Stiles up for a discovery of a lifetime and then let him down without anything to soften the blow. 

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me? You _told_ them?” His face felt hot all of a sudden, his heartbeat spiking and his ears burning. 

“I didn’t tell them _anything_ ,” Derek said with a roll of his eyes. “But I did text them to get here as soon as you told me that we were actually looking for a shape shifter with a penchant for deep bodies of water. You never said I _couldn’t_ , Stiles.”

And fair enough, that was true but-!

“The implication was _there_ , you moron! I can’t- I can’t _believe_ you!” Stiles was mortified to find his eyes aching with the tell tale burn of tears and whirled around with an aggravated growl, stomping back to the car with his heavy bag slamming into his back with each ferocious step. 

“Stiles!” Derek snapped, anger evident in his tone as if the dude had any standing in Stiles’ life whatsoever to act like he could scold him. “What the-? Will you _stop?_ I didn’t even have to _be_ here, you know!”

“You’ve made that perfectly clear already!” he snapped back, stumbling a little over a mossy rock. “If it was such an issue then why the fuck did you throw the invitation out there? You could have uninvited yourself and I’d have done this by myself and in record time too! And don’t try and laud your vapid desire to keep promises and shit because you made none!”

They arrived at the clearing much sooner than it had taken to leave it and Stiles resolutely ignored the four perfunctory individuals leaning against Derek’s car and barged over to his Jeep, hoping to literally get Derek off his trail. 

“I called them for both our sakes, Stiles!”

“And for both our sakes you can drive them back because you are _not_ getting in this car! I demand a fifteen-minute head start because I will not be held responsible for my actions if I see your stupid face in the rear view mirror!”

Stiles felt Derek’s hand clamp on his shoulder and whip him around so they were seething, face to face, and he pushed the offensive appendage off, feeling more rancour and loathing than he could physically express against a werewolf. Derek glared at him, jaw set and snarling. 

“Real nice tantrum there, Stiles. You’re acting like I ran over your dog or something, when any _intelligent_ person _wouldn’t_ have walked into that without some kind of backup!”

Stiles wanted to _kick_ something but was completely out of his league with four super humans who could bat him away like a fly or slap him like a mosquito. He caught a flash of Isaac, looking bored and like Stiles was someone irritating who just needed to shut up and disappear because how dare he talk to his Alpha like that. And _fuck_ but he didn’t want to even look at anyone else because he was three steps close to screaming and _murdering_ someone and he really didn’t need that final shove.

Pasting on a fake smile, he chirped, “Well, this has been a complete waste of time. Consider yourself absolved from any responsibility and rejected from any future invitations.” He let the smile fall, looking at Derek’s nebulous expression coldly. “I won’t bother asking next time.” 

With that, he yanked open the door of his Jeep and slammed it behind him, backing up with a screech and making a sloppy but speedy three-point turn out of there, keeping a blazing eye on the rear-view mirror for any signs of that repugnant Camaro and its repulsive driver.

\--

It started pouring as he made it into town and a split-second decision had him driving towards Danny’s place, unsure as to whether he’d be at home or whether he’d be welcomed inside or sent away by his mom and dad. Keanu and Beverly seemed to like him well enough and hey, they might even take pity on a damp, muddy kid like himself and have him watch the Animal Planet channel with them like last time. 

Luckily, Danny opened the door, which was great because there were a bunch of shows about wolves lately and he was having _none_ of that today.

“Danny,” he greeted, but the day must have shown on his face for Danny frowned and opened the door wider. 

“Stiles.” He looked concerned. And that was actually _really_ nice. 

“Can I use your shower?”

“I’ll put out a change of clothes.”

And that was why everybody loved Danny. 

 

Stiles put his phone down after calling his dad at Danny’s insistence that he sleep over that evening. There was a part of him that wanted to go home and rant to his long-suffering father about his hatred of all things wolf – except for Scott – and another part that was grateful for the company of someone his age group who was currently rubbing the knots out of his neck while his face was smooshed into an Armani scented pillow. 

“I lost my shit,” he grumbled, distressed. “I lost it so hard. In public.”

“More than three people?”

“In front of four.”

Danny paused and then asked plaintively. “More than four people?”

Stiles groaned and burrowed deeper into the pillow like a little mole, whining lowly under his breath. “I _hate_ those people.”

Danny chuckled, resting on one side as he played with Stiles’ hair, lulling him back into comfort. “No you don’t. You just…lost your shit at them. They’ll get over it. And so will you.”

“I still think you should become _my_ best friend,” he groused, peeking out of his fluffy cocoon with one eye. “Jackson sucks. So does Scott.”

Danny seemed to ponder it for a while. “We’d end up having sex in the first hour. Not really the basis of a solid relationship.”

Stiles sat up, his interest piqued. “I thought I wasn’t your type.”

“I thought you were _everybody’s_ type,” he retorted dryly. 

“Oh yeah!” Feeling momentarily satisfied, he slumped back down again, this time with a small smile and feeling marginally lighter than earlier. But the sensation of helplessness and the threat of humiliation in the face of all those werewolves left a deep impression on his skin, making it crawl and tingle hotly and he just wanted Danny to make it all better again. “I know it was stupid,” he said at last. “I should have told him I was doing…magical stuff.”

“But?”

“But at the same time I just didn’t want anyone to know. It’s _my_ thing. There are just things I want to keep for myself. Like the way some people don’t like it if you know a song that they thought was super obscure and meant only for them,” he added, shooting Danny a wry grin. 

“You’re no hipster, Stiles,” he laughed, pinching Stiles’ nose. “But I get you. When I first came out to my friends I wanted to be the only one in school.” He frowned, nonplussed. “But everyone else seemed to take that as a cue.”

“I think it finally gave all the guys who’d seen you shirtless in the locker room the courage to acknowledge their inexplicable and undeniable man-crushes on you. They totally wanted to get in your pants.”

“Really?” Danny looked curiously pleasantly surprised, something Stiles found odd because when he said that everybody liked Danny, _EVERYBODY_ liked Danny. In the way that not everybody liked Jackson or the rest of the lacrosse team because Danny was nice and sweet and funny and _friendly_ …most of the time. Danny was cool in all the best ways possible and to someone like Stiles, whose experience of coolness was as a spectator with the worst seats and a super tall head blocking the view, the idea that Danny didn’t realize his coolness was astounding and so much of a no no. 

“Dude,” he said, frowning up at Danny in earnest, “people don’t like you because you’re one of the ‘cool kids’ or whatever. They actually _like you_. You’re the kind of person every boy and girl aspires to be aaaand, in the case of our school, aspires to be friends with.” He lay back down, pushing away the shyness and smiling up at a very stunned looking Danny. “Aw, man, look at us; we’re having our first moment!” he crowed happily, effectively killing said moment when Danny rolled his eyes and smirked with that pouty mouth of his that Stiles thought was just adorable. 

“If I thought our first moment would be in my bed I’d have made sure you were at least a little less dressed.”

Stiles blinked, his mind working out the chances that Danny was actually being serious and wondering how long it would take for him to shimmy out of his clothes because, hey, Danny was asking for it and who was he to hold back on a good thing?

“Is this night gonna end with my hand in your pants?” Stiles wondered whether his spirit name was Mood Killer because what the fuck was he saying. 

Danny’s lips quirked in wry amusement, the ‘Stiles you are an idiot’ clear on his face. “Not a chance.” But then his hands were on Stiles, pushing him around so he was facing the wall, and then proceeded to pull the sheets up on top of the both of them. “I am not, however, opposed to snuggling,” he murmured, slipping an arm around him and resting his hand on Stiles’ covered abdomen. 

“Holy shit, we’re _spooning!_ ” he yelp-hissed delightedly, pushing backwards into Danny’s muscles. 

Danny snorted, his hot breath puffing against Stiles’ hair. “Congratulations on your first time. Now shut up and sleep.”

“Mmm, I love it when you get all dominant on me,” he growled playfully, snuggling backwards. 

“Oh my god,” he heard Danny mutter as he reached back to switch off the bedside lamp. 

Danny was quick to fall asleep, which left Stiles dozing lightly, his phone tucked under his pillow. It vibrated once, twice, three times within the span of twenty minutes, and he finally pulled it out to reveal a message from Scott, one from Cora and the last one from Derek. Stiles glanced at the names in his inbox for a couple of seconds before steeling himself and switching his phone off. The only potentially important phone calls would be from his dad and Danny had given the man his own contact details if anything urgent happened. After his humiliating explosion earlier in the day, avoiding every individual involved seemed like the right way to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been really busy the past couple of weeks so apologies for not having a chapter last week, to those who might have been waiting for one! As a token of my suckage, this chapter is around 2k longer than the usual word count, which may appease some, not so much others and for you guys, I can only apologise some more. XD Aaand the drama begins, I guess, and it's just going to go downhill from here on out and then dig up some deeper ditches of angst with some smatterings of happiness. 
> 
> Again, this is un-betaed so any mistakes are purely my own and I'd appreciate it if you pointed them out to me! Also, thanks so much for all the comments last time! You guys are amazing ego-boosters and I'm so grateful for your time so keep them coming, as well as any suggestions you have. :)


	5. De Trop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Cora try something new out. A Teen Titans Marathon was probably the deal breaker on his part. Stiles also doesn't know when to quit and no one can refute the fact that Stiles comes with danger and vice versa. It's still totally not his fault, though...

Stiles went home the next day without bothering to turn his phone back on again, too tired and out of it to stare at its screen and register anything other than an old brick of a cell phone. When he pulled up into the driveway, the taste of Danny’s pancakes lingering in his un-brushed mouth, he groaned miserably and very nearly pulled back out again to drive to wherever he could that was far enough from any Hales. Cora stood at the door with his dad and turned around to wave, an inscrutable smile on her lips. _So_ not what he needed this early in the day. 

“Hey kiddo, Miss Hale just got here,” his dad said, throwing him a confused look and nudging an eyebrow in Cora’s direction. Stiles silently told him he was just as out of the loop before giving Cora a tired grin as sincere as he could manage. 

“Hey. You guys had breakfast yet?” _Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes._

“No,” they said in unison as their three bodies filed in through the door one by one and Stiles very nearly groaned again before making his way into the kitchen. Cora kept eyeing his dad, her gaze dropping more than once to his empty holster in suspicion. 

“What’ll it be? French toast? Omelettes?”

“Omelettes. Better use up those eggs before the expiration date,” his dad insisted, pulling out onions, cheese, tomatoes and bacon. 

Stiles raised a brow at the last one, looking at his dad, pointedly not amused. “I’m not even going to ask what you ate last night without me. We’re detoxing you first thing on Monday.”

“Cora, would you be so kind as to chop up these onions and then grate the cheese?” his dad sidestepped, smoothly ignoring his son’s lamentations. 

Cora, looking momentarily startles, nodded jerkily. “Uh, sure. Right.” She pursed her lips at the ingredients and then, after an awkward moment, began opening drawers and cupboards in search of onion-cutting and cheese-grating instruments. Stiles would have laughed had he not felt concerned about her early-morning presence in his house that with it came a strange sort of tenseness in the atmosphere. His dad was doing his best to act like nothing felt off, which only fuelled Stiles’ fish out of water experience and made Cora take extra care as she chopped those onions. 

When breakfast was ready, the unlikely trio simultaneously sat themselves at the table, cutlery ready and pointedly staring at their food – Stiles his mug of cocoa – rather than each other. Fuck his life, this was so weird. 

“Thanks for having me,” Cora near whispered, looking pained and like she desperately wanted to stuff her mouth with omelette just so she didn’t have to say anything. 

“You Hales are always welcome,” his dad said with a warm smile, though there was the unspoken ‘except that warped Uncle Peter of yours; if I see him I’ll axe first, ask questions later’ that all three of them silently acknowledged and Cora smiled politely. 

Stiles cleared his throat lightly after taking a swig of warm cocoa. “So, what brings you here this early?” He really didn’t mean it to sound like an interrogation but there was a cocoon of safety that Stiles felt whenever his dad was in the room, acting like nothing was amiss and with a completely placid, interested look on his face. It was the kind of Sheriff Face that he used when questioning certain individuals down at the station and Stiles kind of hated being on the receiving end. So when Cora froze and looked between the two Stilinski men like a deer in headlights, Stiles was only a little sorry. 

But Stiles gave her points when she plastered a smile on her face, her body language open and welcoming. “I was wondering if we could hang out today,” she informed him promptly, throwing a polite, cursory look at his dad as she continued, “unless he’s spending time with you, Sheriff. I wouldn’t want to impose.” Pushing it on the suck-up but still pretty good if his dad’s amused ponderings were anything to go by. 

“I’ve got plans with some of the boys so I won’t be holding you back. Unless you need me to,” he added seriously, but the twinkle in his eye was unmistakable and a sign that he had his son’s back should he require rescuing. 

Feeling his lips twitch, he looked on thoughtfully, making a show of tapping his chin and swallowing slowly just to nudge a faltering Cora a little closer to the edge of her seat. He could be a sadistic sonovabitch when he wanted to. 

“Eh, no back holding necessary, father of mine. The workload’s relatively light for the weekend.” He turned to Cora and smiled, fake and plastic but there nonetheless, conveying that he _knew_ what she wanted and was playing along on his own terms. The fact that he was in his own house with his dad present for the conversation was an added security measure. “Mind hanging around here? Got a couple chores to do and I stayed at Danny’s last night.”

Stiles didn’t pretend to understand the expression that flashed across her face at the mention of Danny’s name but figured it was one of recognition of the name but not so much the placement of the face. She was still kinda new, after all, poor girl. 

“Sure,” she answered immediately. “Here’s great. More than great. I’m exhausted.”

His dad looked at her, weirded out, but said nothing as he sipped his morning coffee, laced with the crushed, powdered elixirs that the bottles called vitamins that Stiles may or may not have sneaked in. 

Stiles smiled. “Well, that’s just great then.” 

They – meaning Cora exclusively – settled back into uncomfortable silence as the Stilinski men continued their morning sustenance routine, completely calm and composed and maybe revelling a little at the discomfort of their guest because if anyone could read their baby boy right when it mattered, it was Papa Sheriff Stilinski. 

When they’d finished, his dad ran a hand through Stiles’ hair and nodded at Cora, taking off with a hasty call that he’d be back late. When he left, his usually self-assured guest released an audible sigh of relief, fixing Stiles with a look that he turned away from to head up to his room, not at all particularly concerned as to whether or not she’d follow. 

“Why didn’t you answer my text?” she asked, sounding more curious and put out than demanding, once they reached his room. 

He grunted; switching on his computer and double-checking that everything was in the same place he’d left them. One couldn’t be too careful with a group of rowdy werewolves without any respect for socially accepted physical boundaries gallivanting around the place. 

“I was _sleeping_.” Which wasn’t entirely _un_ true but there really was no fooling Cora when she was pissed at you and perhaps even a little…hurt at Stiles’ expressive indifference. That was rude and unkind and hey, maybe she’d take his side with the whole Derek-invites-Isaac-and-the-pack-to-Adventure-Time-without-running-it-past-Stiles-first. Not that he was planning on telling her all the details about said Adventure Time if Derek hadn’t yet filled her in. 

“Uh huh.” Yeah, she was definitely more pissed off than hurt. “I sent it to you at eight,” she informed him snippily. “Have you even read it?”

There was no use in lying, so he didn’t. “Nope.” He popped the ‘p’ and waved his unresponsive phone around. 

Her eyes narrowed in on the item as if it offended her. “You’ve still got that caveman club?”

“Fuck you. This is a Nokia 1110. It’s practically an antique!”

“Precisely,” she simpered tightly and then let her false smile drop. “I don’t know why you got mad at Derek yesterday and I won’t ask. I was just doing as I was told.” Cora frowned then, a hesitation and uncertainty written across her pretty face as she spoke quietly. “Whatever spat you’ve got with my brother; I hope you don’t think I’m the kind to take sides.”

“Would you blame me if I did?” he pointed out, turning his phone on and mentally humming the opening tune. 

She looked rueful. “I suppose not. But I’m being serious here. Derek…probably just made an honest mistake.” She didn’t sound completely certain about that, and Stiles had to give it to her for her sense of reasonableness, a trait that he was aware she’d only recently developed, somewhat to his consolation. 

“An honest mistake doesn’t mean I forgive him. Or like him.”

“Duly noted and stored for future reference.”

Stiles felt his mouth curl upward involuntarily and then began the arduous task of reading those messages that he’d kind of wanted to ignore forever, saving Derek for last. Hah! Priorities, douchenozzle. And because of said priorities, Stiles ran through Cora’s first. 

_hey. what was all that about? hope ur ok; we can hang tmr?_

He read a couple times over. “I don’t know whether to be proud or anguished at the fact that you’ve used a semicolon and decent punctuation but don’t seem to know the meaning of capitalization.”

“Sure I do; I’m American.” He blinked at her in time to see her face morph into one of blissful amusement and hearty laughter that was infectious enough for him to follow. 

“You are impressive on so many levels. I’m a proud papa.” His burgeoning good humour faded back into a dismal cloud of peril at Scott’s message. 

_Dude! Isaac said he saw you just now. :-) With Allison and Isaac rite now. They say hi!_

Pointless message was pointless but pointy enough to irk him in all the wrong ways. Why the fuck were they best friends again? And since when did Isaac and Allison get along? Uh, they _didn’t_ , because Isaac was a home wrecker and Allison knew his game and was supposed to be all jealous-and-protective-girlfriend and all that. Seriously, did _no one_ have his back on his? He almost wanted to start up a petition to get Isaac to leave school. Three counts of damage to school property, two suspensions for violence and aggression to fellow students, a million counts of smirking that stupid smirk and one gigantic count for being the biggest cockhead next to Derek Dickshit. 

And speaking of Derek, his message left about as much to be desired as when someone responds with _‘Ok’_ after a sender has used up their message word limit. 

_We need to talk._

Yeah, to Stiles’ _fist_. Or preferably to a speech therapist because talking to Derek was like talking to a commercial; he repeated the same freaking, meaningless, redundant thing over and over and over again. No amount of leather jackets or green-gray eyes could trump the all round irritation that was Derek’s lack of relevant communication skills that _didn’t_ involve threats to rip someone’s throat out with his teeth. Same old swan song and yeah, it got old fast. 

“I think I hate your brother,” he admitted aloud, pouting in the general direction of his fast-disappearing sanity and patience. 

Cora looked sheepish and strained a hopeful smile. “We can work with that.”

“I’m not a nice person.” Understatement of the century.

“Nobody’s perfect.”

“I hate Isaac.”

And Cora winced at that one, shrugging helplessly in a way that made Stiles’ stomach sink. “Derek adores Isaac,” she told him quietly.

“Do you?”

She shrugged again, almost apologetically. “He’s nice to me.”

He nodded, taking it all in. “Just,” he began, running a hand through his hair in frustration, “just don’t expect me to like him.”

“We don’t even need to talk about him,” she appeased, trying for a reassuring smile. 

“That would help,” he lied, just wanting to escape from awkward territory, while simultaneously getting Cora to stop feeling sorry for him because that just wasn’t her and it made him feel a little bit like a charity case. Which he wasn’t and which he didn’t need or _want_ to be because he fucking had his pride and his dignity and those were personal things that he unquestionably didn’t want messed with. 

He decided to rescue Cora from her extended moment of stilted motionlessness and pulled a couple of house clothes from where they were strewn across his bed and pointed at the door. “I’m gonna take a shower so…feel free to do whatever you want short of destroying my bedroom. And looking under my bed,” he added hastily upon exiting. “Oh,” he popped his head back in, “and looking through my browsing history. Just. Don’t do that to yourself.”

 

They spent the rest of the day watching old _Teen Titans_ episodes that Cora had copied onto her memory stick and Stiles laughed out loud along with Cora, who had loosened up to the point where she was flopped, haphazardly on his bed, a pillow under her chest. Stiles himself was feeling a lot less defensive in the face of Raven and Robin’s subdued but deeply rooted chemistry and he so wished they’d gotten together in the end. 

She crinkled her nose at one point and shot Stiles a knowing look. “Your sheets smell like spunk.”

He fought the embarrassment with the ease of the school’s resident clown. “I’m a sexually frustrated teenager. Single, too.” Because that explained everything in regards to his young and sexually inactive life. 

Her response was not what he’d been expecting. “Ugh, you’re so lucky you’re human,” she groaned releasing a dramatic sigh. “The zero privacy at the loft makes for some _pretty_ awkward mornings.” Tapping her nose with a pout of dismay, she complained softly, with the ease of a girl talking about her period to another girl, “The nose _knows_ and Derek’s got the strongest sense of smell amongst all of us.”

That wasn’t in itself surprising because hey, it was Derek – practically perfect in every way except for being a decent human being, but even in that respect he had a doctor’s note because _hello_ dominant and wholly undeserved wolf genes.

Stiles was not _bitter_. Absolutely not. He was, on the other hand, a little dumbfounded. 

“Did you just admit to-?”

Cora shot him a _look_ , complete with signatory Hale brows and just the right amount of iris to whites ratio of her eyes showing. “You’re not the only sexually frustrated teenager in this room. Just because girls don’t talk about masturbating doesn’t mean they don’t like to get their dirty on.”

“Well damn, girl.” He was awestruck and kind of impressed at her admission and a smile slowly crept up his lips. There was just something raw and fresh about Cora and her intuition when it came to turning a conversation around and her openness was endearing and allowed Stiles to really see the teenage girl through her sieve of badassery, vulgarity and sharp tongue.

With a lofty smirk and a satisfied sigh, Cora clicked on the next episode, resting her chin on her forearms. “I’ll just put this out there in case you ever run out of material to watch but my browsing history’s not exactly PG and I’m lucky Derek’s not the cleverest sequence of binary code.”

“For real?”

“On both accounts,” she scoffed good-naturedly. 

He probably should have felt a little guilty about badmouthing Derek with his sister no less, but there was a decisive feeling of comfort in the notion that he had _someone_ right then, because if he’d had his way, he’d still have been at Danny’s, taking advantage of his bed and his food and his general company. As it was, Danny had a dental appointment. Seriously; a _dental_ appointment. Danny had teeth as white as snow and straighter than Jackson. Orthodontists probably fell to their knees in worship at the beauty of his pearly whites and had moulds made flaked with gold, which they placed in their offices and touched themselves to as jerkoff material. 

Stiles could wax lyrical, poetic and elegiac about Danny’s complete perfection for the rest of his life and still have a multitude of things to say. 

He sighed and stole a glance at Cora, who laughed out loud, utterly carefree, an expression of childlike adoration on her face as the Titans ran around on screen. He doubted she dotted her I’s with little hearts but perhaps the corners of her exercise books had little doodles of faces or plants or animals. Maybe even the odd ‘my name is Cora’ in different scripts she’d been practising. 

He could actually try with her, he realized, chest filled with a clay ball of hope that was still pliable enough for someone else’s hands to shape and tease and manipulate. 

She was still new; not a brick wall Stiles would just uselessly beat against. 

“Hey,” he interjected quietly and tremulously, over the sound of Starfire’s effusively chipper voice, “wanna go running tonight?”

Cora flipped herself over, lips parted in surprised delight as her woody eyes crinkled at the corners. “Absolutely.”

\--

School the following week was not the drag it could have been. He hadn’t heard from Derek at all and hadn’t seen enough of the other pack members for them to inform him about what a disrespectful little upstart he was. During lunchtime he either went to his new favourite – secret – spot and ate and read up by himself or sometimes Danny managed to get away from Jackson and his other buds and they’d play Snap or Go Fish and one time even Pick-Up Sticks behind the bleachers. Cora was even nice enough to wave at him between classes and force Stiles to walk her to her next one, all the while bemoaning away about how shitty of a cook she was and that the pack never let her into the kitchen anymore. 

If Lydia wasn’t with Jackson she was with Allison who was with Scott and who was mostly with Isaac. So it became a really weird five-some that Stiles would have felt extremely awkward being a part of because no one really messed with Isaac and Jackson had, over the duration of the Alpha Pack situation decided that ignoring one another was actually easier to bear than constantly being at each other’s throats, a gesture that had not been extended Stiles’ way. He was totally fine with that, really, because being a sixth wheel was utterly beneath him and he was a proud and independent motherfucker and could take care of himself and didn’t need to be around oodles of saccharine cuteness and nauseatingly polite conversations. Or go bowling, or play pool _or_ go ice-skating with them in the evenings. How the fuck did five people even _go_ bowling of ice-skating together?

He went to class as per usual, ate alone as usual, went to massage class with Danny as usual and began hashing through the woods some nights with Cora, something he was all to happy to add to his schedule, blissfully distanced from any conversation involving Derek Stale. 

Perhaps the most important part of it all, though, was the fact that he decided to completely fuck it all and go and look for kelpies all on his own. Because in a reasonably ‘safe’ town like Beacon Hills with enough forest to hide in and only a few, strategically placed mountain lions scattered around, why _wouldn’t_ he go?

And if he chose not to let anyone in on his whereabouts because his father was conveniently working a double shift, he also had a baseball bat, a crowbar and a kitchen knife in his bag, as well as a handful of mountain ash, crushed wolfsbane and a _rope_ should things really come to a head. The more benign materials included his usual kelpie book, a sketchpad, stationery and a camera. Despite his severe case of disinclination towards him, though, Stiles put Derek on speed dial but only because he really didn’t want to end up dying and leaving his dad under the impression that his son had decided to ditch his Jeep miles outside of town and hitch a ride with a psychopathic rapist-murderer-cannibal and was now dead. He wasn’t sure the guy would be able to handle that much drama this late in life. 

Stiles repeated THAT DAY almost to a tee, with his car in the same clearing and his steps following the same path, only this time without the demonic creature of hell who thought it would be fun to develop a moral compass that had him storming off in the opposite direction like an ass hole. 

The sky was a boggy shade of gray and Stiles had to pull his waterproof jacket a little tighter around himself, his breath misting in the cold air. The forest was various shades of dead brown and dull green, the sun nowhere to be seen as he bumbled on in search for _something_ to make this whole thing worth while. 

That was of course when he decided to completely zone out, his legs taking him wherever they wanted to, his eyes on his feet to keep from stumbling over the uninviting terrain. Something by the _Yeah Yeah Yeahs_ was stuck on repeat under his breath as his attention wavered further away from him until the monotony of his crunching footsteps became a tempo to the elusive song, the lyrics of which he couldn’t seem to recall. 

A breeze, sudden, icy, deliberate, blew the song from his voice and snatched the sounds from the air and a deep chill settled in his shoes. Stiles looked up and found himself standing at the edge of a lake, both feet firmly planted in the clear, reflective water in a clearing that _shouldn’t_ have been this close to where he’d walked from. Even the trees, pale and gray, looked as if they were turning away from the centrepiece of the area. 

“What?” he whispered, but the sound was stolen as if the air itself was made of a dense, heavy sponge, muting and flattening all sound and movement. 

Stiles didn’t have any time to feel afraid, too confused and disoriented to realize what it was he should be feeling. There was a sense of anatopism, but he wasn’t sure whether it was him or the place that just felt… _wrong_ somehow.

His bag was also oddly light and yet when he moved, it felt as full as earlier, bouncing off his back with a familiar, reassuring weight that lent him strength. Strength to move towards the middle of the eerily still lake. The ripples, he realized; there weren’t any. He had never before seen water so still – so _dead_. The thought, the _reality_ of the situation should have made him want to run – it should have made him want to get out of the lake until that strange water wasn’t touching his skin anymore with its unnatural, slippery feel. But something told him, some murky recollection of the book in his bag, told him that he should move towards the centre of the lake. 

It wasn’t a large lake either – he could see its entire shore. And then he vaguely registered something else – the lake shouldn’t have been as perfectly circular as it was. 

“Huh,” he hummed quietly, the water nearly at his waist and still as _still_ as before. Stiles pulled up the stories he had read about kelpies as they unrepentantly dragged their prey into the depths of a cold body of water, drowning them or keeping them for whatever purpose. He couldn't recall anything about the lakes themselves. Perhaps there hadn’t been anything. And that would just add more fodder to his theories about magical habitats. Perhaps it wasn’t the creature that chose a place, but that the place itself drew magic towards it. 

The problem was that he didn’t know _where_ this place was and didn’t need to look at his phone to know that there was no signal. 

The water was already up to his chest when he stopped, ears pricked and tingling. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and Stiles’ breath caught in his throat. Slowly, Stiles angled his head around until he saw the shore he’d just come from. 

“What,” he breathed again, staring at the silhouette of a large, dark horse whose mane clung to its head, wet and dripping and tangled with thin, deep green reeds. It was a sight that might have made his heart stop at one time, but now, he couldn’t help but admire the strong body, the shining wet coat of deep brown, almost black, the long, powerful legs and the intelligent eyes, white and milky like the sky above. 

Its two front hooves were submerged in the water like Stiles’ had been, and it tossed its head once, a similar movement to a boxer cracking his neck before a fight. With a steady, almost cocky kind of confidence, the creature moved towards him, its strides smooth and graceful in the dead water. 

A part of Stiles wondered whether there were remnants of old human meals beneath his very feet, but cast the thought away in favour of quietly, discreetly unzipping his bag without taking his eyes off the kelpie. 

The horse whickered – in warning? Or maybe cold amusement? Stiles wasn’t sure, but he carefully pulled the coiled rope from his bag and held it in front of him with both hands, keeping it partially submerged in the water in what he vaguely hoped was a show of good faith. It glided through the water with the ease of its namesake and it was only when it was standing over Stiles, dripping cold water onto his head, that he realized the sheer height of the creature. There were also little things that felt _different_ about the creature, discerning it from its equine origins. It was _expressive_ , for one, little nuances that punctuated its almost human characteristics. It was also taller than any of the actual horses Stiles had seen, which had mostly been limited to those on TV. But perhaps most strikingly, its body was narrower and more sinewy, reedy and taut in a way that resembled a coiled spring, ready to attack. 

If anything, Stiles could always try to dissuade it from that route of action. 

“Hi,” he interjected finally, keeping a good distance from the kelpie, but also mentally preparing for a swift retreat. “I’m Stiles.”

The kelpie made a soft, rumbling sound in its throat, like a low chuckle and Stiles instinctively took a step back, swallowing thickly. 

“ _Stiles_.”

Stiles froze, lips parted in surprise. The creature’s mouth didn’t open, but its voice – male – was everywhere and this time it _echoed_. His voice was deep and throaty, hoarse with disuse, and Stiles wondered absently whether this was the same creature in those sightings all those decades ago. 

“Are you a kelpie?” he asked, his voice shaking only at the end. 

The creature dipped his head in a low bow, bringing his milky eyes to Stiles’ level and from this close there was no hiding from the knowing, gleeful gaze of the kelpie. Stiles swallowed heavily and took another step back. 

“Guess that’s a ‘yes’, huh? Well, uh, I’m a little lost. D’you know how to -?”

The kelpie rose again to full height, dripping water like drops of ice onto Stiles. A tendril of some green water plant slipped off the creatures forehead, down his nose, and then disappeared into the deadened lake with a soft _plop_. 

“ _Stiles_ ,” the kelpie said again, and there was _power_ in that voice that sent him stumbling back a little, an insistent tugging at the back of his mind. 

His breath came out in slightly heavier pants. “That’s me.”

“ _But it’s not, is it?_ ” He spoke slowly, like each word was deliberate, like each word was meaningful, even the ones that weren’t. “ _That is not your name_.”

A surge of panic came and went, and although all Stiles wanted to do was be anywhere but here, to turn his back and _run_ , he knew he wouldn’t get far. But like his dad had always told him in an interrogation, _take control of the conversation._

“It’s what I go by,” he told the kelpie sternly, his fingers gripping the rope until each wayward piece felt like it was embedded into the palms of his hands. 

“ _But it is not your naaame._” The voice seemed intent on getting Stiles to answer and Stiles thought that at this point, honesty was the best policy. 

“That’s true.”

The kelpie seemed to nod and then began to circle Stiles slowly, his long, spindly legs spaced delicately, one before the other. 

“ _Clever boy._ ” 

Stiles didn’t like the way that came out – like a taunt. But he refused to return it with one of his own - _never_ thank the fae. And all the evidence up until now pointed to the kelpie being one of them.

“What can I call you?” he asked instead, shivering in earnest now. 

The kelpie grinned, bearing pale gray _sharp_ teeth. 

“ _Hungry._ ”

Stiles barely allowed himself a beat before speaking. “That’s too bad. How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

Coiling in irritation, the kelpie leaned in closer to Stiles inhaling at the nape of his neck, and Stiles felt the faintest trickle of fear that he thought he’d managed to suppress since he ended up in this place. 

“You can’t touch me,” he murmured, willing his voice not to crack. “Unless I touch you first.”

“ _Is that what your books have told you? I have heard many fables over the years._ ” The creature inhaled once more and then rounded on Stiles, tilting his head to the side in unmasked curiosity. “ _But…it has been a long time since I have scented one such as yourself._ ”

Stiles licked his lips. “And what’s that?”

“ _Wolfchild. Hale_.” 

A twinge of irritation made his nose wrinkle, as if something particularly smelly had just planted itself underneath and Stiles frowned up at the kelpie, feeling recklessly angry. 

“I’m not a Hale. I know a few Hales; like one, hate the second, wouldn’t be caught twenty feet from the third.”

“ _You came here the last time with a Hale. A very alone and lonely wolf, he was._ ” If it were possible for milky, sightless eyes to be expressive, the kelpie would have look disappointed. 

“That was a one-time thing,” Stiles interjected under his breath. “No more Hales. And how’d you know we were there?” 

He was careful to keep Derek and Cora’s names to himself – even if the urge of turning Peter into kelpie chow was a strong one – because, as everybody in Beacon Hills with a bit of sense knew, names had _power_ and names in the wrong hands was a frightening prospect. 

The kelpie’s shoulders seemed to sag, until once again, his milky eyes were level with Stiles’, something very old and sorrowful in those sightless orbs that sent chills up and down Stiles’ spine. 

“ _I knew many Hales once upon a time,_” he said, in a quiet, rumbling voice. “ _Decades and decades ago. Perhaps I have slept too long._ ”

Stiles wanted to reach out and stroke the creature at the desolate tone, but supplemented it with an earnest look. 

“That’s sad. How long have you been asleep?”

The kelpie didn’t answer for a long time, but neither did it attempt to move any closer to Stiles, and get him to touch his deadly coat. When he did speak, there was a hollowness to the echo that left Stiles feeling lost and bereft. 

“ _A long time, it seems._ ”

That was probably kelpie for ‘I have no idea’ and so he didn’t push the issue but tried to weasel another answer out of him instead. 

“I’m not a werewolf either. Why’d you call me that? _Wolfchild?_ ”

Tilting his head to the side in what Stiles deemed to be confusion, the creature replied solemnly, “ _Unlike my kind the Hale pack has never been biased towards humans. You are part of them._ He spoke with that same slowness, as if he had all the time in the world, and Stiles supposed he did. The fae didn’t die – couldn’t die from old age as far as Stiles knew. 

“I know a few of them,” he repeated with a shrug, going for nonchalant. 

“ _It is curious that they allowed one of their young ones to come here alone. Not all beings are benevolent._ ”

“Are you benevolent?” Stiles demanded with more bravado than he could boast. “Because you could have fooled me earlier.”

Making a sound that could only have been a laugh, the kelpie replied, “ _I am both threatening and friendly. Such is my nature. You have not incurred my wrath yet, little wolf. You are young, still._ ”

That wasn’t exactly encouraging but at the same time he didn’t want to literally look a gift horse in the mouth and settled for extending a figurative hand of friendship. 

“I’ll do my best to remain in your good graces, then. You won’t eat me?” he felt compelled to ask. 

The kelpie made another amused noise and looked over Stiles’ head. “ _That is a myth so believed and ingrained in the minds of humans that it is not worth the effort refuting. Though I will admit that I derive entertainment from the fear I instil in some who cross my path._ ”

That was probably a long-winded way of saying ‘I like messing with people’ and Stiles found himself smiling even as he shivered harder than before. He’d almost forgotten about the cold and it looked like the kelpie had noticed. 

“I…think it’s time I got back home now,” he murmured sheepishly, smiling apologetically. “But I’d like to come back and…y’know, see you again. If you’d like.”

“ _Leaving so soon?_ ” The kelpie truly did sound quite distressed to the point where Stiles had the sudden image of the kelpie forcefully keeping him here. “ _I suppose it is for the best. Your family will be searching for you._ ”

He scoffed dismissively. “Nah; no one’ll notice I’m gone.”

“ _I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Stiles. Everyone knows when a wolf has strayed from the pack._”

Stiles smiled thinly. “Good thing I’m not a wolf, then.”

The kelpie straightened his posture, looking down at Stiles with an austere severity. “ _Have you not been listening? You are Wolfchild. Someone always knows._”

Frowning, Stiles shook his head. “I don’t think I’m following. But, uh, hey…do you know how I can get out of here? I’ve gotta feed my dad tonight.”

Fidgeting under the weight of the pale eyes that remained fixed on him, Stiles squirmed and was about to repeat the question when the kelpie spoke once more. 

“ _I can take you,_ ” he said liltingly, “ _but you must trust me not to harm you._ ”

There were two words that never failed to put Stiles on point whenever they were spoken in regards to him. Trust was a fickle thing that people seemed to dish out in spades and no supernatural or fantastical creature he’d met so far had shown much promise of incurring his complete submission. 

And yet…

“I can do that.”

Kneeling low, as if bearing his neck for an execution, the kelpie told him quietly, “ _Then get on my back._ ”

Stiles’ fingers froze around the rope still in his hands, his breath caught in his throat. Almost every book he’d ever read about kelpies warned him against making any physical contact with the creature and yet here he was, his body nearly betraying him. 

“What?”

A rumbling sound from the creature rang in Stiles’ ears as the kelpie lifted his head so they were level. “ _Ride with me. Or never leave._ ”

“I really wanna believe you,” he admitted, biting his lip. “But you gotta know that my limited knowledge of kelpies is sort of working against that at this point.”

The kelpie considered this, dipping his head in a nod. “ _A trade, then._ ”

“What kind of trade?”

“ _Your trust. And my name._” 

And then the kelpie bent down to whisper into Stiles’ ear, his cold breath like sea mist against his cheek. 

Stiles let the rope drop from his hands and it slipped down into the water and settled at his feet. Had he had the time, he might have told the kelpie not to reveal the one thing so important to the fae that they could spend an eternity without ever having spoken it to anyone. 

Feeling like he had just been granted a priceless gift, he reached up then and laid one hand above the kelpie’s nose, between his colourless eyes, feeling his hand begin to stick to the wet mane. 

\--

Of all the bizarre and befuddling awakenings Stiles had ever had in his brief life, this was probably the most jarring. He remembered the kelpie swinging Stiles onto his back, his powerful muscles rippling under Stiles’ thighs as they too began to stick to the dark, dripping mane. He recalled the startling moment of shock with stark clarity when, instead of leaving the lake, the kelpie brought Stiles deeper into it, towards the center. He remembered only garbled nonsense and frantic demands of _what are you doing_ as the frigid water rose above the kelpie’s head, tightening its icy fingers around Stiles’ neck before he was pulled under, into the dead blackness with a scream in his throat as water filled his mouth.

A moment later and he was opening his eyes to the inky black sky, the tips of sleeping trees silhouetted against it. It wasn’t one of those dramatic awakenings with gasps and coughs; this was _gentle_ , like he’d just woken from deep sleep. 

He was lying, limbs sprawled around him on the leafy forest floor, his bag digging into his back. He was _wet_ and shivering violently, teeth clicking together like the wheels of a train. Even his nose was running and then he did coughed, struggling to stand. 

There was a strange ringing in his ears, as if they were filled with cotton and earth and as he got to his feet everything just kept _moving_. 

Someone came running into view, then, holding a flashlight and Stiles barely took a step back before the figure gripped his arms and shook him. It was Ellen from the station and she kept opening her mouth but all Stiles could hear was the sharp ringing, continually keeping him off balance. 

Ellen brought her radio to her mouth and said something, keeping her other hand on Stiles’ shoulder, though whom she was trying harder to reassure was a probably debatable. 

More lights then, and more figures, meandering in between the trees towards them. There was one light, though, that caught his attention and he just watched as it came closer and closer until the heavy beam gave way to his father’s frantic face. There was another moment of silence as his dad threw himself at Stiles before all the sound rushed back into his ears, catching him off guard. 

“-n’t know where you were!” his dad was saying as he hugged him hard until he couldn’t breathe. “Melissa said Scott was out and we couldn’t get him on the phone and-”

His best friend’s name yanked him back to reality and with a jolt he pushed his dad back, lurched over and heaved, tasting bile and _salt_ as he emptied the contents of his stomach. He was vaguely aware of his dad’s hand rubbing circles on his back as he continued to cough and spit, feeling a headache creep up on him and settle deeply into his skull like a jackhammer. 

“’Time’s it?” he mumbled groggily, leaning most of his weight onto his dad as he was led away. He slipped as the ground gave way and only then realized how wet the ground was and that he was covered in mud and leaves. 

“Six AM, you crazy kid. You’ve been here all night.” His dad sounded a mix of relieved and angry, which Stiles attributed to his dad’s reaction to himself whenever he did anything particularly stupid. That sort of amounted to 90% of the time, so he figured he hadn’t quite reached Amber Alert heights of worry yet. “I got the second shift off and you weren’t there when I got home.” It was something in Stiles’ state of mind that had him holding onto his guilt at the near helpless crack in his father’s voice. 

“How’d you find me?” he managed letting his dad help him into his car. It smelled like his dad and almost instantly put him at ease.

“You left your computer on,” came the sharp reply that had him wincing. “Stuff about lakes and horses in Beacon Hills and it didn’t take long to find out where exactly.” He exhaled and gestured feebly his eyes telling Stiles that he really wanted to help but didn’t know how. “What the _hell_ , kid?”

Feeling his stomach sink lower he had nothing to say but to shrug. “I don’t know. I was just walking – brought my camera with me for a project and then I…I woke up.” The lie burned his throat worse than the acid did and he pressed his lips together and stared down at his mud-crusted hands. 

“Was it a panic attack?” his dad pressed, looking lost. “Are you having those again?”

He shook his head. “I remember getting lost.” That was how he’d ended up at the lake. That was _real_. He knew it was; he could still hear the name whispered into his ear. It had all been _real_. “I might’ve panicked a bit.” Another lie that made him cringe internally. “But other than that…”

The silence might speak for itself but the worry lines on his dad’s face and the fact that he’d asked his colleagues to help track his son down was enough to keep the truth hidden for now. 

On the way to the hospital his dad informed him that he’d only beckoned the few remaining colleagues who’d known Stiles since he was a kid to help search for him. The fewer who knew the better, apparently, and it only served to expand the ball of self-reproach in his chest. On the positive side, other than being completely chilled to the bone and soaking wet from the massive deluge that Stiles had been ‘asleep’ through, he was perfectly fine and probably just passed out from a panic attack after getting lost in the forest and would be fine after some rest. He was totally willing to accept that diagnosis and felt exhausted when he was finally allowed to go home where his Jeep had already been parked. 

It didn’t take much convincing of either party for his dad to let Stiles skip school that day and just sleep, the name of the kelpie still on his lips. 

He even had a moment to feel grateful that his timetable for the day meant a pretty much zero probability of running into anyone from the pack or those closely affiliated to it. 

But at the same time he wasn’t sure whether the fact that they might not even realize he’d been absent was actually that much of a relief at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't apologise enough for the lateness of this chapter but hey, real life blues and all that. We, as a family, have also been really busy dealing with a funeral, and I've got my own personal admin-ish things to take care of so it's really been a rough ride these past weeks so I do hope you're not all put off with me. I really did try! Also, no Derek for this one, but he'll be back, no worries, folks. ;)
> 
> This chapter was going to be a lot longer but I decided to cut it off here and just hand it over already. ;) As always, a million thanks for all the comments and the kudos because they mean so much to me and really keep me motivated to writing this story. I'll do my best to make sure the next chapter doesn't take that long but, uh, rl stuff has a way of ensuring the exact opposite. XD
> 
> Anyways, hope you've enjoyed the chapter and any feedback is always absolutely welcome!


	6. Pluto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Certain people push their way into Stiles' life and others kind of hang on the sidelines like birds on high-tension wires. Sometimes, Stiles pushes back and other times he just misses the wire.

Waking up that same evening involved a whole lot of grumbling and a foray towards homicidal tendencies at the sound of his phone beeping and vibrating somewhere on the floor by his bed. The sun setting through his window was the only clue as to how long he’d been asleep for – like, the entire friggin’ _day_ \- and with a long, lion-like groan, he literally rolled the top half of his body out of bed and reached for his phone before rolling back in again and wincing as his screen lit up, nearly blinding him into oblivion. 

“ _Herro?_ ” he mumbled, pressing the offensive contraption to his ear. They were having words after this, make no mistake. 

“ _Stiles? Sorry, did I wake you?_ ” 

Cora. Huh. That was unexpected. 

“Mmgh. Kinda.” He stifled a yawn. “Wassup?”

“ _You weren’t in school today,_ ” she said, sounding uncertain. “ _You sick?_ ”

He nodded, humming affirmatively. “Totally threw up all over my dad this morning.” When evading the truth try being funny – it worked on Scott! Not that he was any representation of the common-sensical of society in any way but still. 

“ _Shit. That sucks. I, uh…_ ” she cleared her throat before continuing, “I went to your teachers and got your homework for the weekend.”

That cleared away more of the cobwebs and he sat up straighter. “No way. For real, dude? Moon of my life, you are.”

Cora laughed softly. “ _Anything for my sun and stars. Want me to bring it over now?_ ”

“If it’s convenient. I’ll have to rummage around in the kitchen if you want me to feed you, though.” That wasn’t something Stiles was looking forward to. His body felt too sore. 

“ _No need! I’ll bring some soup over – mom’s recipe._ ” 

How could Stiles say no to that when her voice even quavered over the mention of her mother? He grinned and said warmly, “Much appreciated.”

When he hung up he browsed through the rest of his missed calls and found _three_ from Danny and with a happy flutter of his heart he dialled him back. 

“ _You missed the day I brought you one of my mom’s beetroot red velvet cupcakes._ ”

“Great opening line,” he praised, finally gathering enough energy to get out of bed properly. “It fills me with remorse beyond compare.” And really, it did, because those cupcakes were delicious and he kind of wanted to marry Beverly for the sake of her baking talents even if she was like, three inches taller than him. 

Danny snorted but Stiles could hear his warm concern when he spoke next. “ _You feelin’ okay?_ ”

“I’ll feel better once I get some food in me. Apologize to your mom for me, ‘kay?”

“ _No worries. And hey, um, I woulda helped with your homework but Cora Hale kind of threatened me and made me leave._ ” Stiles blinked at that and it sounded like Danny was equally perplexed. “ _Are you guys, like…because if I’m in the way and all-_ ”

“Whoa!, Hold up there, Danny-boy, we’re not like…anything,” he spluttered even as he stripped out of his clothes and headed for the shower. 

“ _Does she know that?_ ”

Stiles thought back to their _Teen Titans_ marathon conversation and snorted. “Yeah, she knows. Plus she’s totally off limits as a Hale, if you know what I mean.”

“ _Uh huh, fair enough. Massage practice tomorrow still on, right?_ ”

“You bet your ass it is.”

They said their goodbyes and Stiles hopped in the shower and basically scalded himself until he felt awake enough to search for his dad. Said father had, however, left a note on the kitchen counter saying he was working late but that they were going to _talk_ tomorrow, something Stiles dreaded to the point where he felt like staging a boycott by running off into the woods again before realizing how bad an idea that was. 

When Cora arrived with his homework and a container of some delicious-smelling fish and vegetable soup, Stiles nearly wept at her feet. Instead he focused on guzzling as much as his stomach could take. 

“You,” he said, with his mouth full of fish and tomatoes, “are a goddess. _Man_ , this is beyond amazing.”

“Thanks,” came her dry reply as she stared at the now empty container. “That was supposed to be for two meals at least.”

“Growing boys and everything,” he equivocated, wiggling his eyebrows. “Now how come you knew I was absent? We don’t share classes on Friday.”

She shrugged delicately. “I have my ways. Werewolf and everything.” After a while she reached into her bag and pulled out her own books for the day. “I was also gonna drag you out for some frozen custard later but maybe when you don’t look like you’ve been dying.”

He huffed a laugh that turned into a coughing fit and had to excuse himself because he had issues with blowing his nose in front of people. Cora had just shaken her head and started on her homework. 

Up in his bedroom, Stiles glanced down at his phone and took note of his inbox and the three names that filled it – Danny’s, Cora’s and his dad’s – and felt a twinge of something horrible at the reminder that at one time there’d be a never-ending stream of Scott’s name in one night alone. Sniffing and rubbing at his face once more, he went back down and settled for an evening with his unlikely new companion, trying not to ponder how long this one would last. 

\--

Stiles walked into the grocery store smelling like lemon oil and then spun around to walk out again. It was one of those comical sights, like something out of a cartoon and Stiles felt mighty idiotic when he caught the pitiful reflection in the glass door and rolled his eyes, silently cursing the existence of a conscience. 

He turned around again, aiming to _confront the problem and win_ , a la Edna Mode and without any ridiculous capes – sorry Batman – and stopped short. 

“Shit,” he murmured under his breath. Derek wore a deep blue office shirt – indigo if you wanted to be fancy – and a pair of dark gray trousers, a matching blazer hanging off the handle of his shopping cart. His tie was nowhere to be seen so Stiles figured he must’ve left it in his car or something. The man looked _good_. Yet again, Derek takes the cake for making Stiles’ sexy senses tingle. And if that wasn’t a euphemism for _I would tap that_ he didn’t know what was. But what _really_ had Stiles captivated with a strange sort of amusement was the fact that Derek looked a little lost, his eyes darting back and forth between two different coloured milk cartons held in both hands. 

Stiles allowed himself to watch the show of domesticity for a few more moments before Derek’s head snapped up, his nose subtly scenting the air. Snorting to himself, Stiles walked towards him, meeting his eyes halfway over. 

His surprise transitioned quite easily into an accusatory scowl that had Stiles rolling his eyes, reaching a quietly trembling hand to pick up his own milk carton. If Derek was going to be a pissy bitch then there was no way Stiles was giving him any of his time. He was a strong, independent asshole, motherfuckers. 

“You didn’t respond to my text,” Derek said, voice laced with annoyance. 

“Hm?” Stiles looked up from examining the ingredients label of his milk. It just said ‘milk.’ “Text?” He totally knew he was being a little shit but who the fuck cared. 

“About us? Needing to talk? Ring any bells inside that head of yours?”

Wow, way to reel someone into a decent conversation. 

He sniffed snootily. “I’m _done_ with this abusive relationship.” Derek blinked, obviously not expecting that. “I don’t need _you_ to complete me,” he continued imperiously, raising his voice and silently laughing at Derek’s descent into utter loss and confusion. “We are _through_ , mister.”

“What the fuck are you-?”

“This guy bothering you, kid?” a large, burly man – petty officer Regans whom Stiles liked to say hi to whenever he was at the station because he always had candy under his desk – stepped up behind Derek and placed a threatening hand on his shoulder. He wasn’t taller than Derek but he was definitely wider and had that Big Daddy look about him that no one wanted to mess with. Guy was a sweetheart to his kids, though. 

“We’re just-”

“I ain’t talking to you, sir, I’m talking to the _Sherriff’s son_ ,” Regans said slowly, narrowing his dark eyes threateningly.

Derek turned his own murderous eyes on Stiles, who in turn looked wounded but then smiled at Regans. 

“Nothing bad, Bill, we were just talking about his ex,” he whispered conspiratorially, winking in Derek’s general, seething direction. “Sometimes you just gotta put them straight, y’know?”

Bill’s face broke out into a sympathetic smile and he patted Derek on the back with a large hand. “Ah, no worries then. Just thought you were messin’ with my boy.”

Derek nodded politely. “No problem. Misunderstanding is all.”

Stiles beamed at him and then proceeded to ask Bill about his wife and kids, completely aware of Derek’s uncomfortably stiff body standing between them and still being unconsciously held in place by Bill’s heavy hand. 

“All right, well you two take care now and good luck with your ex, kid,” he said genially, patting Derek twice more before pushing his trolley towards the cashier. 

Stiles smiled brightly and dropped the milk into his trolley. “Well, he’s awesome, huh? Imma go get some pasta.” He wasn’t entirely surprised when Derek followed him as he rolled past, heading to another aisle. 

“That was a shitty thing to do, Stiles,” he hissed, grabbing random items off the shelves. 

“What goes around comes around. Oh, and careful,” he said blithely, checking the expiry date of a bottle of soy sauce, “Deputy Miles is right there at the end – wouldn’t want him to report my abusive boyfriend to my dad, huh?”

Derek clenched his jaw and continued to shop next to Stiles but at a more sedate, less hostile pace that had Stiles chuckling evilly to himself. 

“So,” he began, once they’d reached the canned food section, “what did you want to talk about?” He knew full well but it was always nice to delay the inevitable. 

“About the fact that you left me to squeeze into a car that wasn’t meant to fit five fully grown werewolves,” Derek snipped, reaching for the canned peaches. “I nearly crashed on purpose for my own sanity.”

“Drama queen,” he teased.

He received a dry glare for his effort and they continued down the aisle, Stiles stealing eyefuls of Derek’s ass whenever he bent down and imagining what it would feel like to poke those two immaculate globes. Would they be hard and muscular or would there be a layer of soft fat that he could pinch?

“I also,” Derek continued, strolling in front of Stiles so he couldn’t see his face, “owe you a small apology…possibly.” And boy, did he sound petulant about that little fact and Stiles forced himself to keep pushing while keeping his tone as neutral as possible. 

“A _small_ …apology?” He picked up a can of sliced pears and another of pitted cherries for a gluten-free pie he’d wanted to try for his dad. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Derek snapped with a backward glare. “Small because I had my reasons for calling them over.”

Stiles pursed his lips. “So you said. Said reasons have since failed to garner my forgiveness.”

“ _Said reasons_ were not all _said_ ,” Derek mocked, snatching up a jar of green, black and brown olives. 

“What does that even mean?”

“It _means_ that I didn’t get to explain myself fully. Granted, I hadn’t intended on explaining _everything_ as I’d hoped the execution would’ve been a bit more favourable but you marched off before anything could _happen_.”

Big words alert. Derek using big words and actually being articulate alert. Somebody sacrifice a goat to the gods or something. 

“Care to explain what you’d been hoping to achieve?” Because Stiles was _still_ not convinced that anything good could have come out of that six-some of potential disaster that could have ended in his death. And Stiles was _irreplaceable_. 

With a heavy sigh, Derek turned around and folded his arms, inadvertently making Stiles stop in the middle of the aisle with his oily hands on the trolley bar handle. 

“I was _hoping_ to achieve some sort of truce between you and Isaac. And I thought it might be easier if the others were around to ease the…tension,” he told Stiles quietly, gesticulating a little with his fingers despite his one hand resting on his other forearm. “But I see now that you aren’t quite ready for that step yet.” He sounded rueful in the way that Derek Hale wasn’t supposed to, not towards _him_ anyhow. 

At a loss for something to say, Stiles settled for, “Nah, but I’m ready for dinner. I’m hungry.” Which was completely off point, unnecessary and kind of stupid and it looked like Derek thought so too for his raised a brow and then turned back around, shaking his head and possibly throwing a question to the universe about why the fuck he had to deal with Stiles Motherloving Stilinski. 

And that was a fair question too because Stiles was the master of deflection and Derek wasn’t stupid. 

“’A’ for effort, though!” he called, scrambling to catch up. 

“’Effort’ starts with an ‘e’,” Derek grumbled, but slowed down so they were side by side. 

“Not if you’re from Hogwarts! ‘A’ for _acceptable_ , then.” He smiled to himself, revelling in his own little joke before he caught Derek’s strange look, which quickly morphed into _judging_ before Stiles could decipher what that look meant. 

They made it to the checkout without too much fanfare, though Stiles did at one point question him about his expensive meat supplier, to which Derek gave a three-sentence lecture on knowing where one’s meat came from, which Stiles took note of and rushed back to replace his own pork and lamb chops for Derek’s supposedly healthier albeit pricier brand. 

As they walked to their own respective cars, Derek turned to him once more, a serious look on his face that Stiles interpreted as Alpha Mode Expression and almost blurted out a swift farewell so he could escape but Derek beat him to it much to his chagrin and shame. 

“Stiles, the next time you go out looking for…adventures,” it looked like it pained him to say that, “I’m willing to tag along. But if I think we need backup, I _will_ call-”

“Cora,” he interjected quickly and Derek’s brows rose in surprise. 

“Cora?”

Swallowing as his mind streamed through his ultimatum, he nodded slowly. “Cora can be our backup. No one else.”

Because in some ways Cora would understand. And she was definitely the most tolerated out of Derek’s pack at this point. 

Derek watched him for a few moments, his forest eyes piercing as he mulled over Stiles’ demand. 

“Fine,” he said finally. “Just Cora.”

\--

Of course he had no plan to inform anybody about his kelpie friend just yet – if _ever_ \- and so Stiles decided to venture back to see him, this time with a few ground rules in place and a note for his dad informing him that he was sleeping over at Danny’s in case he didn’t come back on time again. 

He went back to the same place, stumbled over the same roots, climbed over the same rock shelves and whispered the kelpie’s name under his breath all the while, calling him to find him. The sky was bright today, the sun lending its warmth to the otherwise windy forest in such a pretty and welcoming way that Stiles didn’t realize that he’d fallen into the kelpie’s home once more for the water was clear now and somehow less dead and the sun fell across it like a blanket, trying to insinuate itself between the tight molecules of dark water. 

It didn’t feel quite like the sinister lake the first time he’d come; it felt like the tail end of summer leading into autumn with deep _colors_ and sleeping _life_. It was beautiful in its own, subdued way and Stiles took a moment to admire the fact that there was actually _growth_ , so small and fledgling that it would be invisible on an overcast day. Leaves were wilting and drying up, giving way to the hardier winter plants and little movements here and there spoke of little animals burrowing their way underground or collecting their stores. 

Stiles wondered briefly whether he’d had a hand in the change of setting. The way it was before felt…lonely. 

 

“Where do you get your food from in the winter?” Stiles asked, handing Al – an abbreviation of his name that the kelpie had allowed himself to be called – an apple, which he gently took into his mouth with a grateful crunch. “Because I don’t see any fish in that lake. It’s pretty small.” He eyed the still water dubiously. “Or do you not need to eat being immortal and all?”

“ _We are hardly immortal,_ ” Al said in that deeply husky voice of his. “ _There are many things keeping us alive. Not just food._ ”

Stiles perked up. “ _Us?_ ” He looked up into Al’s old eyes expectantly. 

A burred rumbling told him that Al was laughing, probably at his nosiness. 

“ _Not just my kind,_ ” he continued slowly, “ _but our kind in general, I suppose. Many native to this land and country whom we share our tales with. Many more brought here from countries far to the fiery east or the humid south or the cold north. Our kind is…diverse but dwindling,_ ” he said, sounding sad, which Stiles could totally appreciate because humans tended to do that, especially to each other. 

Stiles chewed slowly on his sandwich, thinking quietly. “Do you have family?”

Al’s pale, empty eyes lit up with impossible joy at the question. “ _I’ve a mate and we have three of our own. They are...not here, now, but perhaps one day you will meet them._ ”

“Sounds awesome,” he beamed, feeling happy for his new friend but also trepidation at the way he faltered at his clan’s whereabouts. “I’m glad you haven’t always been alone.” If his voice came out bittersweet it wasn’t his intention but caught Al’s in any case, who knelt down and nibbled on his hair, a gesture that Stiles found himself happily leaning into. 

“ _Neither have you, Wolfchild,_ ” he murmured quietly against his ear. “ _A Wolfchild is never alone regardless how he might try._ ”

Which made no sense at all because it’s not like _he_ had ever been an honorary member of the pack – it was more like Allison had no choice other than to be part of it thanks to Scott’s undying love for her and Lydia had actually _pushed_ Jackson into it because she saw some benefit in that and she was scary that way and before anyone knew it she was just _there. All the time_. Stiles’ own relationship to them was whenever someone was in mortal – one time immortal – danger and required another set of hands for a computer and a faster technological response time than Reddit. Stiles was _Pluto_ \- because fuck the world it was a planet – and Pluto liked to do its own thing. Had anyone _seen_ Pluto’s elliptical orbit? That was crazy some crazy shit. 

But he digressed. 

And so he deflected. 

“So like, I have a question – are you a shape shifter or are you not?”

Al tilted his head, considering. “ _I am capable of changing shape, yes. Would you like to see?_ ” He clopped two steps back from Stiles. 

Stiles blinked, gaping shortly before he scrambled to his feet, nodding, unbelievably thrilled. “Yeah! Yes please!”

Werewolf shifts _looked_ painful. There was a stretching of skin to accommodate new bones, which creaked and cracked and re-joined themselves underneath under the delicate layer of skin. Derek and Cora were the only two who seemed to shift easily and imperceptibly before his very eyes. They were fluid and swift – natural. 

When Al shifted it was neither fluid nor swift nor painful. It was _elegant_ , like slipping into water and taking that first glide into the sinuously gentle depths. It was ethereal and otherworldly in a way that captured his heart and stole all the words from his mouth. 

Where once stood tall, black and inky now stood a man only slightly taller than Stiles with hair the same color of his mane and down to his shoulders, a strong jawline and brow and kind, brown eyes. He looked to be around his dad’s age at first glance but there was a strange and indiscernible youthfulness about him that had Stiles blinking rapidly and shaking his head to clear it of the cobwebs that had begun to settle around him. 

A hand landed on his shoulder and Stiles looked up to see a contrite expression on Al’s face. “Apologies, Stiles,” he said, and it was as if the entire echo had vanished from his voice so he could hear his true, dulcet tones underneath it all. It was one of those voices Stiles could have listened to for eternity, with an old accent that he’d obviously retained over the centuries. “I have not been in this form for a long time; the glamour might be strong for a while.”

Glamour – a word Stiles had come across several times in his research about the fae. Used to enchant humans or help the fae blend in a little more. Stiles figured which one Al was projecting pretty quickly. 

“Heh,” he chuckled drowsily, “no worries. We’ll get you in top shape in no time.” He winced at the desire to fall into Al’s embrace and just nuzzle up to that very _naked_ and cool body and focused instead on his breathing and on Al’s sweet voice pulling him back from whatever oblivion his mind had fallen to. 

“Fight it, Stiles,” Al whispered, stroking Stiles’ hair. “You are good at that,” he said wryly and Stiles imagined him rolling his eyes. 

It was true, though; he’d always been pretty self-disciplined when it counted. Like when it came to money. Money especially. Stiles didn't like spending money. Except that one time he bought Lydia fifty different gifts for her birthday. That was a moment of failure on his part, which made him cringe to this day. 

With a deep sigh, Stiles forced himself to look up at Al and found him smiling softly down at him, proud and encouraging, like a father might. The thought gave him warm butterflies that crept up his neck to the tips of his ears and he smiled back, seeing a strong, middle-aged man with laughter lines and crows’ feet at the corners of his brown eyes. 

He was still naked, though.

“Good.”

Stiles laughed, a little breathless. “D’you charm everyone who stumbles across your domain or am I just special?”

Al tapped his chin in thought. “Everyone who is charmed is charmed differently. My demeanour for you is only what you need it to be.”

“So…you look differently to everyone?”

“Not dramatically so, no. Everyone perceives me slightly differently just as no two individuals think of you in quite the same manner.”

“Huh.” He nodded to himself, clearing his throat as he pulled off his jacket and motioned for Al to cover himself in all the necessary places. “That makes sense, I guess. Is that the whole deal of being a fae, then?”

Al shook his head in amusement and tied the jacket around his waist, his fingers brushing against the strange fabric with reverence. Once they had settled themselves on the grass, facing each other on their sides, he spoke again. “Being fae is like being a plant or an insect or a fish.”

“Different kinds of fae,” Stiles said in understanding, twirling a long, dead leaf between his fingers. 

“Precisely. Fish swim – some in groups, some solitary. Animals hunt – meat or grass or both. Some creatures move away from the winter, other beings wake up during the cold.”

“Similar traits and activities but maybe different ways of doing them and different times,” Stiles explained to himself. 

With a smile, Al stroked the drying but still soft grass between them. “Wolfkind were once fae.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles pushed himself onto his elbows, trying to process this new piece of information. 

“But that, is a story for another time,” Al interrupted smoothly, his voice and… _suggestive_ and _teasing_ face brooking no room for argument as he slipped a hand into Stiles’ bag and drew out a carton of pre-washed champagne grapes. “Now, you will tell me about this new world I’ve woken up to.”

Despite his disappointment of not finding out about _actual_ werewolf lore from an _actual_ fae, Stiles decided that bringing Al up to date on the world’s changes for the past two centuries was paramount and would probably require several practical exercises and field trips into said new world just so there couldn’t be any risk of accusations calling bullshit. But he still felt sorry for the kelpie, whose loss of time seemed to weigh heavily on his fae soul. 

 

He got home before his dad did that night; smelling of water and salt, and immediately tore up the note he’d left on the fridge and threw it away. He felt tired but buzzed at the same time as he raced to his room and pulled out a book he’d saved strictly for kelpies and recorded everything important he’d learned from Al. It looked and sounded like a haphazard diary, like he had been too lazy to get everything down neatly and chronologically, but to him it made sense and served as better recall if and when he needed to scan through his notes again. 

He even wrote down everything he’d told Al about his everyday routine, his school and all its asshole-ish teachers as well as a few of the adventures he’d been a part of in Beacon Hills. 

A topic he’d skirted around had been his mom and Al didn’t push, which Stiles deeply appreciated. 

Stiles wrote until his eyes got heavy, wrote little questions and circled them in the corners and margins of the pages and circled them in a second color – for no reason other than the fact that the pens were just _there_ \- so that he could bring them up again the next time he saw Al.

When his dad’s car rumbled into the driveway, Stiles was exhausted enough to put everything back in their places, bumble into a pair of shorts and then hit the lights out, excitement and anticipation still coursing through his fatigued little self. 

\--

Stiles had been on stealth mode for practically half the day, dodging past groups of chatting students and the obligatory teacher who crossed the hallways in their less-than-snazzy clothes – Ms. Jennifer ‘Darach’ Blake had probably been their most fashionable teacher to date – while he waited for Danny to stop being surrounded by his pack of giants and one werewolf like freaking bees to a flower. A flower that was Danny Sexbomb complete with glistening brown skin that everyone wanted to lick. If Danny were a popsicle, he’d have tongues plastered to him all day and night. Stiles would be one of them, sucking the most important popsicle of all. Because he was greedy like that. 

He growled under his breath as a teacher went up to him and started engaging him in not-so-innocent looking conversation if the hair twirling and shoulder touches were anything to go by. Stiles would have paid money for his dad to walk down the halls and crackdown on _that_ illicit activity just for his kid’s amusement. 

But Danny was a polite gentleman and Stiles had read enough of his dad’s case files to recognize disinterested body language and Danny boy was _definitely_ angling for an escape route. Cue Stiles, a convenient source of distraction! Also cue Greenberg, who was trying to squeeze past a trio of girls walking abreast and a trashcan. All it took in the end was a surreptitious slip of the foot to slide some dude’s skateboard into Greenberg’s way and all five went tumbling down in a mess of flailing arms, legs and half-eaten sandwiches. _Yum_. 

Ms Flirty hastily flitted over to help and Stiles scampered over to Danny, catching him by the arm. 

“Class or no class?” he demanded. 

Danny smirked, looking relieved that he wasn’t about to be propositioned by any more of the teaching staff. “You’ve memorized my timetable, you tell me.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Hmmm, I’m thinking library time, also known as Hacking 101.”

“I’ve got a following of individuals who aren’t just interested in getting me to put in a good name for them to the team. Does wonders for the self-esteem.”

Sidling up to him suggestively, Stiles purred, “Oh, baby, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of with _this_ delicious package.”

“Touch my junk and I can’t promise I won’t touch yours back.”

“You do know that to a virgin like myself that threat’s redundant.”

They were rudely interrupted by a werewolf who thought beauty grew out of his asshole. 

“Trying to get some from my buddy here, Stilinski?” Jackson sneered, coming out of nowhere and still looking like the biggest prick on the planet. His existence was completely unnecessary. Amoeba contributed more to the world than _that_ waste of space. “Sure you should be aiming this high?”

“Sure you’re one to talk when Danny’s been asked out three times as much as you have?” Stiles asked sweetly. “From members of _both_ genders at that.”

Jackson’s eyes flashed in irritation but Danny got a hand between them. “All right, guys, you’re _both_ pretty.”

Jackson eyed him up and down. “Sure, if you go for runts of the litter.” And thaaat was pushing it because everybody knew the runts were kicked out of their little newborn packs. “Now go scamper off to wherever it is you spend your pathetic life now that McCall’s finally embraced the good life.”

“Jackson!” Danny hissed, looking back and forth between them – apologetic at Stiles and exasperated at Jackson. 

Time out. Time out and a million yellow and red cards and fouls. 

He felt hot and cold all at once but couldn’t bear the thought of Jackson’s gleeful expression should he actually show the extreme levels of shit and panic he was feeling. So he frowned, attempting to look unimpressed, folded his arms and drawled airily, “Really, Jackson? _That’s_ what you’re going with? I’ve met snails with better insults.” Blatantly ignoring that snarling ass of a face, he turned to Danny and grinned. “You go on and take care of the infant – I’ll catch up with you later, man.”

He turned away before Danny had finished bidding him a worried farewell and if he shoved a few people out of the way, that was their problem because right then he just _couldn’t breathe_ and all he wanted to do was _break_ something, specifically Jackson’s face. An all-consuming rage burned its way into his head until he found an empty classroom, picked up a chair and threw it against the opposite wall, where the seat cracked, splintered and horrible, drowning out his loud shout of “ _ASSHOLE!_ ”

As he fell to the floor, head between his knees, trying to control the bitter beating of his heart and the angry breathing, the worst part was that he didn’t know whom he was directing his anger at as all the faces of the pack ran through his head, clogging it full of cold resentment. 

 

Twenty minutes later, when he was feeling marginally better, he picked the chair back up, stole a piece of paper and wrote down ‘Sorry,’ and taped it to the broken chair, which he carried out of the classroom, glad for the empty hallways, and set it in front of the janitor’s room. He contemplated adding a little smiley face but thought that might sound patronizing and he really liked Bernie, who never said anything when he stumbled across Stiles in his new secret spot during lunch one day. 

Bernie had literally swept the broom across Stiles’ unsalvageable trainers and then moved on like a freaking badass. He was a Louisianan Rambo, is what he was. 

And he didn’t deserve to have to clean up Stiles’ mess in the classroom, or end up questioned by their lot of questionably human teaching staff – seriously, how did they let these people get past security?

The decision not to go to his last class of the day was an easy one that involved the fervid desire for a large cheeseburger and a root beer float. 

A&W downtown was therefore the ultimate destination and Stiles burned rubber all the way because he knew all the right turns to make to steer clear of any on-duty deputies. Or his father, because that would have resulted in the biggest grounding that ever ground. 

He ended up ordering _three_ – a double cheeseburger, a _bacon_ double cheeseburger and a coney cheese dog – hold the onions – with chilli cheese fries on the side and a gigantic root beer float that fizzed like an alka seltzer on E. 

Stiles had never been the most elegant eater and his ire only fuelled his lack of table manners as he stuffed his face with _everything_ , imagining that it was Jackson’s neck he was chewing on. It probably wouldn’t have tasted half as good but with the speed he was going it wasn’t like he was actually tasting his food at this point. 

Several people glanced his way, confused – judgmental – expressions on their faces as if they were wondering what a teenager like him was doing out of school. He blatantly ignored them for slipping his thumb through some cheese and licking it off obnoxiously loud. He sniffled a little from the spiciness of the chilli and wiped his nose with his sleeve when it ran down his lip. Someone might have made a face and gagged but he couldn’t have given a shit if he tried. 

He was halfway through his hotdog when a tray – a double cheeseburger, a set of regular fries and a root beer float – was set down in front of him with all the quiet finesse of a whisper. What the fuck even. Stiles spent a few moments staring at said tray, wondering whether it had developed some highly advanced conscience that allowed it to levitate itself all the way from the counter to his innocent little spot in the corner. He contemplated saying, ‘hi’ to it but kept his mouth shut as the opposite chair was pulled back and a guy in a business suit sat down without so much as an ‘excuse me, may I have this seat because while all the other tables are empty your awesomeness has drawn me to you?’ 

Not that anything remotely resembling such a compliment would have ever sprouted from Derek Hale’s mouth. 

“Werewolf!” he piped up suddenly, accusatorially, blinking at him with a lost sort of befuddlement. 

Derek gave him a long-suffering grimace and unwrapped his burger. “Teenager,” he grumbled quietly in response.

Okay, then. 

“Work?”

“Lunch break. Class?”

“Skipping.”

Derek looked up sharply at that, raising a brow and obviously unimpressed. “Seriously?”

“Like Batman.”

With a light sigh, Derek started eating and Stiles, after watching him for any sudden movements, went back to his own food, feeling appropriately weirded out but suppressing the urge to throw a fry at him for the sake of the fries. And his life. And possibly his soul because he might be eternally damned by the Fry God. What the fuck ever. 

“Is that a teenage binge or a depression binge?” Derek asked after a while, biting into his regular, uncool fry. 

Stiles shrugged. “A bit of both,” he replied honestly. “Or maybe I just really like the food here and couldn’t resist leaving anything from the menu out. They might develop an inferiority complex, ya dig?”

Derek’s lips twitched but they were hidden once more by his burger so Stiles couldn’t quite gauge whether or not it had been a smile. 

“Why’d you skip? Couldn’t have been more than a couple hours left.”

“I do what I want,” was his blunt reply, feeling less than willing to partake in any conversation regarding his recent hissy fit that had taken a very physical turn. Least of all to _Derek_ who was in some ways the whole source of the issue. Fuck him and fuck Jackson and fuck Peter, who deserved an honorary mention because he started _everything_. One day Stiles was going to give that old dick a piece of his mind – not a literal piece because only Peter would construe it as such and Stiles’ brain was an important part of him. It was where _all_ the magic happened. _All._

“Uh huh.”

Stiles scowled. “I _do_.”

Derek arched a brow. “Did I say otherwise?”

“The tone, man, the _tone_. Tones are extremely important. It’s why the Chinese have it all right.”

“You don’t even speak Mandarin,” Derek pointed out, nibbling on another fry. 

“I could if I tried,” he scoffed. “I have a _penchant_ for languages.”

“Okay.”

And hell if that wasn’t irritating. Stiles was perhaps guilty of trying to one-up the guy but Derek was making it exceedingly difficult with his dismissive attitude. 

He decided to bring up the complaint as such. “Is that it? That’s all you’ve gotta say to me? No narky remark about my incorrigibility and general existence in your life?”

Derek looked up mid-chew and then shrugged aggravatingly calm. “Nope.”

“Don’t you pop that ‘p’ at me, young man!”

“’M older than you.” And didn’t he just sound smug at that little fact? “But I _am_ trying to finish my food so, uh, d’you mind?”

Stiles was kind of taken aback by the sheer politeness and utter honesty in that little sentence and it actually made him feel acutely bad for disrupting the guy’s lunch break. Seriously, work all day, pack business in the evening, pack training on the weekends, not to mention the potential as Stiles’ bodyguard because he’d bloody _offered_ like a gentleman. 

“Uh, sure.” He cleared his throat awkwardly and picked up the rest of his bacon burger. “Imma eat anyway.”

This time Derek’s twitch of the lips was clear as day and his chaparral eyes were alight with amusement that made Stiles’ face heat and stomach do little somersaults. Inappropriate reaction to an inappropriate facial expression – put it away, Derek, before someone drops their pants just for you! 

They finished their food in near silence. Stiles pointedly averted his gaze from Derek’s general sphere of existence but through the corner of his eye he could feel Derek’s occasional stare, as if Stiles were an interesting creature doing something noteworthy right in front of him. When Derek finished his food, he stood up and gathered his tray. Stiles hadn’t realized he’d finished his own food until Derek picked up his mess as well and walked over to the bins. He came back with a casual stroll, lips pressed together in that way of his that meant he was trying not to laugh. 

“Shall we?” he prompted with a subtle jerk of his head. 

“Ummmm.” But the answer was spoken for him when Derek wrapped a strong but gentle hand around Stiles’ elbow and pulled him up so slowly that Stiles wasn’t quite sure what was happening until he was being led outside. Huh. Distraction by Derek’s muscles; it made a good diversion in a fight, he supposed, so long as they managed to obtain an opponent who liked that sort of thing. 

In his haste to leave he’d left his parka stuffed in his locker and immediately felt the chill of the autumn breeze when it gusted into his sleeves, leaving him quavering in its wake. A decadent heat spread from the center of his back into his torso, arms and legs when Derek slid his hand from his elbow to the base of his neck, leading him without the command of an alpha but rather the comfort of a simple companion. For once he didn’t feel the need to declare his independence and his very _human_ ability to take care of himself and why the heck are you touching me anyways, Failwolf? 

Glancing up once and feeling his surroundings fade away, he found Derek looking straight ahead, serene and soft and just a guy – just a _man_. A normal, professional man who hadn’t had the world pulled out from under his feet; who hadn’t had his family stolen so horribly, who hadn’t had his sister ripped in two and whose uncle was still a little shit but _loving_ in his own way; who hadn’t been burdened and blessed with having to find a new pack, a new family too early and too soon, and who didn’t live every waking moment wondering if they’d be taken away from him as well. And Stiles, despite everything, felt a lump in his throat and the irrational urge to cry because this man was _whole_ but it was a big fat lie cast by a muggy day and a fast food joint. He quickly averted his gaze down again when Derek turned to look at him, but allowed himself to be directed to his car, fumbling with the keys as he tried to unlock it. 

Derek helped him up but kept the door open until Stiles had started the engine, desperate for the comforting vibrations he knew so well to replace the loss of werewolf heat that felt so foreign yet so infallible. The print of his palm felt seared into his spine but the absence of Derek’s indirect touch to his skin was like a misplaced piece in an otherwise complete puzzle. 

He really wished Danny were here. Danny was good at hugs. Maybe tonight-

“Drive safe,” Derek murmured, leaning into the car so he could tell pointedly it to Stiles’ face. 

Stiles snorted, the spell broken as Derek’s voice cut through his musings. “Have fun at work, dude.”

Derek huffed a short laugh and then slammed the door shut with noticeably less force than most people usually gave his baby and then pushed away as Stiles reversed out of his space and drove home, glancing into the rear view mirror at Derek’s casual form for a very different reason this time, but one that remained elusive and mystifying. 

He’d just reached home when he realized that he hadn’t even asked Derek where he worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you guys I'd have this up soon-ish! :D Unfortunately, the next month is going to be real busy for me as I'm starting my course again and back to uni it is! :( As such, I won't really be able to write much for at _least_ a couple of weeks, which means that the next chapter is going to take a while. I'll try have it up some time in October but I won't make any promises because I'm kind of bad at keeping them, lol. XD 
> 
> Anyways, thanks so much for the response so far and I'm so glad so many of you enjoyed the kelpie scene! There's more of the kelpie to come, though I can't say he's going to have too big of a role. ;) Please keep comments coming with your thoughts and theories because I love discussing them with you guys! :) I'm also on tumblr, where I am still Owraithe. I don't post anything about fic-writing but I can put up progress reports every now and then if that's what ya'll are interested in.
> 
> Again, apologies for the short hiatus but I'm aiming to have this story finished by the end of the year and I'll do my best to make that happen!
> 
> As always, this is un-betaed so if you spot any mistakes, do let me know and I'll rectify them asap! Other than that, I hope you've enjoyed the chapter!


	7. Three's A Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These days Derek seems to always be there, somewhere, in all forms of presence and Stiles is only just beginning to notice it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody! Soooo sorry for the long wait but I've just suffered through a move, starting my new course and being swamped with a lot of work. Hence, the lateness of this chapter, which I'm not 100% satisfied with but it'll do for now until I feel the urge to edit it. Which will probably be never but, eh. Anyways, thank you for your understanding and I hope you're not too irritated by it! Hope you all enjoy the chapter! :)
> 
> As always, please alert me to any spelling/grammatical mistakes as this piece is un-betaed. c:

Everyone had been told the week earlier that they were to come to tonight’s session and prepare to be shirtless – girls got to wear sports bras but had to undo the hooks while the massage was in progress. The fact was that Stiles was anxious about his body at the best of times and with a product of comparison in the form of a Danny Mahealani, his self-confidence was drooping with every flex of glistening muscle. 

Seriously, where had _his_ abs gone? Stiles blamed the chocolate. He had gotten a little soft around the middle lately, he realized sadly, poking the layer of fat below his belly button. 

“Danny?” he called softly, bottom lip jutting out only a _little bit_. 

Danny took his t-shirt off and folded it neatly. “Yeah?”

“I think I’m fat,” he sniffed, scrunching his own garment up and throwing it on top of his bag. 

Danny looked at him, exasperated, and took a pointed look at his six-months-pregnant belly. 

“No you’re not.”

“But, but _look!_ ” Grabbing Danny’s hand and directing a finger to poke at his flabby flab, Stiles began mentally reciting all the things he needed to cut back on. That kind of ended up only being a singular item of food – chocolate: the root of all evil and, more importantly, destroyer of self-esteem. 

Danny’s lips twitched mischievously as he got Stiles down on the mat – you dirty boy, you – and prepped his hands with their instructor’s new oil of choice – lemon and lavender because apparently it was stimulating as well as relaxing. Ms Sicat had brought one of her girlfriends in to demonstrate on – a tall, leggy blond who seemingly had no qualms whatsoever about pulling her top off in front of everyone and undoing her lacy bra. If Stiles guessed correctly, she actually looked pretty enthusiastic about the whole thing and sighed happily when Ms Sicat started running her hands down both sides of her spine. 

He could totally relate, though; there was something magical in her hands that had Stiles close to snoring every time. 

Danny was a close second, though, and Stiles distantly heard himself cooing as Danny worked on his shoulder blades. They hadn’t spoken about the whole Jackson thing and Stiles was immensely grateful for not pricking his finger on that spinning wheel because that whole exchange was about as thorny as it got when Douchewolf was concerned. 

Of course thoughts of that situation led to the re-examination of Derek’s coincidental appearance – the sight of him eating a burger like an actual human being would never get old – and their very weird and stilted – on Stiles’ part because he was the king of socially awkward – lunch conversation. That was a side to the Alpha that Stiles hadn’t ever seen before and it was mildly disconcerting to be barraged with how’s and why’s and what ifs of a Derek who had until then been predictable and two-dimensional to him. 

But he chose to reserve those pontificating’s for another undated time when he was feeling particularly masochistic.

 

An hour later had them exiting the studio and stopping at Stiles’ usual supermarket because Danny was staying over to help Stiles with a math assignment but before that they were going to detox on actual _healthy_ food and ‘cleanse the system’ as Ms Sicat told them repeatedly to do, especially after a full-body massage. Something about toxins and cleared passages and _peeing._ Because Stiles was an infant. 

“I say we buy blueberries! Super food and all that,” he declared, picking up a small carton. “Oh hey, fresh figs! I’ve never had fresh figs before.” He happily picked up a pack of four and then carefully placed it in the trolley Danny had been knighted to push. 

“Two lemons.”

Stiles bagged them, feeling strangely exuberant about the whole domesticity of the situation. 

“Honey.”

“Got some at home! Ms Sicat gave me a jar of Manuka honey that her grandparents sent her from India.” Stiles paused and turned around, shooting Danny a devilish grin. “Or did you mean me, _babe_?”

Danny smiled blithely back at him, pushing his shopping cart past. “Manuka’s fine.”

Pfft. Diversionary Tactics 101 but Stiles knew Danny’s game. 

They browsed through the organic aisle reading labels and flirting playfully in a way that Stiles felt completely comfortable with. There was just something about Danny that made him feel wholly at ease, in the knowledge that boundaries were respected but also few enough that Stiles could get his quota of physical affection without being afraid whether or not he was pushing too far.

Danny really _did_ like to cuddle, deny it as he might try. 

Stiles had just been silently lamenting the lack of his favourite hazelnut spread when he spotted it on one of the top shelves, and immediately cursed whoever was in charge of organizing stock. Tiptoes were not his thing – girls just seemed to be genetically programmed with that physical trait – and his fingers were just barely scraping the bottom of the jar when a very hard and warm body pressed itself against his back and a very delicious, muscled arm reached past his head, a tanned hand easily plucking the jar off the shelf. 

Stiles turned around, trying not to laugh as he flung his arms around Danny’s neck, popping one leg up behind him, _Princess Diaries_ style. 

“My hero!”

Danny snorted but didn’t pull away. “Any time, damsel.”

Life certainly had a way of placing Stiles into _it’s not what it looks like_ situations, and while most of the time it really _was_ what it looked like, this time was the complete opposite. Unfortunately, trying to explain such complex theories when put on the spot was not ideal because those were the occasions where his brain refused to cooperate with his mouth. 

Which was why when a subtle cough forced the pair to look away from each other, Stiles had to spend a good five seconds trying to figure out if it really was Derek standing there in a t-shirt and jeans, his expression indecipherable and blank. 

He looked at Stiles, then at Danny, whom Stiles was still affixed to, and then back at Stiles. 

“Hey.”

Stiles was still standing there like a doofus. “Duh…hey, man.”

He turned to Danny again and nodded in recognition and Danny slowly and gently extricated Stiles’ limpet arms, actually placing them back at Stiles’ sides before letting go. 

“Hey, Derek,” Danny smiled a small and polite smile. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Derek answered, bordering on dismissive. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You weren’t interrupting anything,” Stiles blurted hastily, feeling the strange need to explain himself, something that often got him in even more trouble. “Nothing to interrupt. Because nothing was happening,” he finished lamely, in the face of Derek’s dubious gaze and Danny’s rolling eyes. “Hoookay then, uh, now that that’s outta the way-”

“Hey, you two catch up; I’m gonna look at the teas,” Danny interceded, placing a hand on Stiles’ forearm to put a wrench in the ramblings before it really got going. 

Whoa, seriously? Was he _seriously_ just leaving him to the wolves? Like, _literally_ wolves? And the funny part – or, y’know, not really funny at all – was that he didn’t know _why_ he felt that vibrating urge to bolt. It was like Derek was _judging him_. No, really, he wasn’t. In fact, his face was carefully expressionless, ergo Stiles had no way of sensing whether there were any bad vibes being cast his way. And he was fairly certain that he hadn’t done anything bad lately, so there’d be no reason for him to be the object of Derek’s ire. He’d totally been a good boy. Well, other than hiding the fact that he’d found his very own kelpie and was slowly integrating said kelpie into the twenty first century. And would that even work? Because the lake was his home and there was a worrying decrease in the number of natural, bodies of fresh water in the world. Huh…he’d have to ask Al next time. 

He watched Danny, his lifeline, saunter away with their shopping cart _whistling_ to himself. Traitorous little hussy. 

Danny sent Derek a polite farewell, which the man responded in kind by doing the affirmative eyebrow thing. 

Those eyebrows could have singularly carried their own TV show. 

“So was that weird or what?” he laughed, a note of hysteria that Derek probably definitely certainly caught wind of. “Heh, Danny’s an odd one, huh?”

Derek pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes fractionally; so slightly that Stiles nearly missed it. Well, obviously Danny _wasn’t_ an odd one – though Stiles might have tried to argue that any weirdness stemmed from associating with _him_ \- and he was just trying to equivocate. Seriously, don’t hurt yourself, dude. 

When Stiles took a step forwards to lessen the discomfiting distance between them, Derek inhaled sharply, his eyes flashing red briefly in a way that Stiles was all too familiar with and it bore the result of making him stop in his steps, his body still and tense. 

“Are you fucking- _here, Derek?_ ” he hissed, feeling suddenly worked up and glancing around for any watchers. He totally blamed it on Danny leaving. 

Derek shook his head, composing himself much faster than he’d ever been able to from previous momentary lapses of control that brought his wolf to the surface. 

“It’s nothing; I’m fine,” he said quickly but with the Alpha certainty that Stiles nearly believed him off the bat. 

“Did…did something happen? Is everyone…” he trailed off uncertainly, his mind immediately turning to Scott and Cora. And the others. Of course the others. Well…Peter was a special case. 

“No,” Derek reassured him firmly, “nothing like that. I’m just,” he shrugged, “long day.”

And, okay, Derek was allowed to have long days too – but the whole werewolf thing kind of meant that he could only have long days in areas of little public congregation because if _Derek_ was losing control then obviously shit was bad enough to warrant it. Still, though, humans in the immediate vicinity was pretty much a passport for the Hunters and Stiles kind of liked Derek’s ass sans knives and arrows sticking out of it like a porcupine. 

So Stiles nodded in understanding, offering an apologetic smile. “Work, huh?”

Derek smiled tightly but honestly. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” he shrugged. Which wasn’t entirely true because he’d never had a job before but _life_ , dude, _life_. That was a perfect argument winner any day. “But, uh, hey if you see Jackson could you _not_ tell him that you saw me with Danny? I don’t want him to think I’m stealing his best friend or anything.” It wasn’t a lie, not really, because Jackson really didn’t need to know the quantified amount of time Stiles had been spending with Danny. It wasn’t even that substantial. Okay, maybe it was in comparison to _before_ , but Jackson’s own Danny Time had arguably decreased ever since Werewolf Time started. 

Derek’s face seemed to close off for a flash of a second but the flatness of his eyes vanished once more until they were almost _fond_ \- something that kind of scared him a little – as he replied in an undertone, “I probably won’t even see him. But if I do…” He left it hanging, his face telling Stiles that no, Derek wouldn’t breathe a word. Award for Decent Supernatural Being goes to Derek Hale for slashing one worry off of Stiles’ list. 

Stiles couldn’t stop the smile that curled on his lips. “Thanks.” He cleared his throat while simultaneously clearing his mind. “I owe you one, buddy.”

With an arched brow that clearly posed the question, _really?_ , Derek shook his head slowly. “Don’t call me ‘buddy.’ Makes me feel like a five-year old.”

“Oookay, then?” Wow, touchy, but kind of understandable considering Stiles never let anyone call him his real name. He wasn’t even keen on short-forming someone’s name either because, uh, unless they said otherwise, he was going to call them by the name their parents – or guardians – had given them. Al was a special case, of course. And Stiles just made his own existence marginally easier for those within the immediate vicinity of his life bubble. 

Still… _buddy?_

He decided to change the subject because Derek was still standing there _staring_ at him as if he expected Stiles to do something funny like pull a rabbit out of a can of baked beans. 

“Need help getting stuff?” he offered. 

Derek tilted his nose up, furtively inhaling – Stiles suspected he was trying to place Danny’s current position in the store; they’d never really spoken much but Danny had never been reserved in his admiration of the male physique and Derek was pretty much free eye candy around town, something that he never seemed particularly comfortable with. That only made Stiles hate him more because who the fuck ever heard of a modest werewolf? The books didn’t make them like that, asshole. Play your part, dickhead. But he digressed; Stiles also suspected that Danny openly ogled Derek for the _sake_ of making him uncomfortable, especially since he was cheated by the whole Miguel incident. 

Totally Stiles’ fault but water under the bridge, baby. 

“Shouldn’t you be getting back to Danny?”

“Is he my keeper?” Stiles scoffed, taking the end of Derek’s shopping cart and leading it down the aisle. “C’mon, tell me what you need.”

They shopped efficiently, with Derek mentioning things he needed at intervals and Stiles plucking the necessary item(s) off the shelves, occasionally commenting on whether or not he liked the particular brand because he was an opinionated little shit like that. 

After a while Derek spoke again. “You and… _Danny_ …smell…similar,” he commented stiltedly and looking back in curiosity found Derek examining a bottle of ketchup. 

Stiles shrugged with an air of nonchalance. “I guess that’d make sense.” He gathered five tins of spam, remembering that Derek cooked with it a lot. 

“Oh?”

Nodding absently, he grabbed a few cans of creamed corn. “We _did_ just spend the last few hours together.”

Huh, two for one on American mustard. 

“Oh.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, Stiles.”

What? Stiles blinked owlishly, taking a few moments to recall that he was shopping _with_ Derek. But the man was already pushing forward and Stiles just followed him to the checkout, feeling like he’d forgotten something – forgotten to _think_ about something – and could taste the need on his proverbial tongue but couldn’t grasp at it anymore with his slippery fingers. 

Meh, can’t have been that important, then. 

\--

“The air smells different,” Al – human-shaped Al – said as they passed through whatever invisible barrier separating the faerie world from the human world. 

The air _did_ smell different but he couldn’t place his finger on _how_. There was just an extra element of familiarity as compared to Al’s home; something Stiles was only just beginning to notice. 

Al sneezed, reminding Stiles uncannily of his dad as he rubbed his nose with the back of his plaid sleeve. The shirt belonged to the Sheriff back in the days before slowly protruding potbellies. It probably fit Al better than it’d fit Stiles’ dad ever again, despite Stiles’ never-ending mission to whip the man back into shape. 

“Yeah, it does.” Stiles took a tentative whiff of the air, imagining the unfamiliar things Al could probably make out. It was a good thing Stiles wore an extra layer of deodorant today because the standalone, compulsory fitness class earlier that day that replaced their usual lacrosse practice was _killer_. 

Needless to say, he hadn’t won any medals for stellar performance – all those had gone to Jackson, Scott, Isaac and Danny and only _one_ of those boys _hadn’t_ cheated. Three guesses whom, the first two don’t count. 

But whatever. He didn’t care. Like, at all. He was _above_ that kind of shit. 

Even if he’d been down for the count after only ten burpees. 

“Just a question,” he gushed out, sick of the same old internal tirade, “are you okay with all the iron?”

If anything, Al’s face only seemed to _glow_ at the question and he answered with a lilting kind of pride, “It does not affect me the way it does the _lesser fae_. 

“Oh, well _excuse me_ ,” Stiles returned with a teasing grin. “Wouldn’t wanna downplay your awesome.”

“Quite,” was Al’s prim response. Freaking _diva_. 

Stiles rolled his eyes and then gestured widely as his Jeep came into view. “Well, this is she. Welcome to the new mode of transport – riding horses was totally an insult to the equine race anyway.”

Al regarded the gleaming blue beauty with a scrutinizing, curious gaze. “And everybody has one of these?”

“Uh, well, there are different kinds. Not everyone’s looks like mine. Different _designs_ , and sizes you know? I’ll totally show when you’re ready!”

With a tentative, almost _reverent_ touch to the car, Al nodded absently, leaning in close to catch his reflection in the blue paint and then knocking his knuckles on the black door. 

“Hmmm.”

“Iiis that a good hmm or a bad hmm or an I’ve no idea what to make of this hmm?”

“Less words, Stiles,” he admonished with a small smile. 

Stiles huffed good-naturedly, totally feeling the sass. “Do you like my car?”

Al looked back at him with considering brown eyes and then nodded fractionally. “It is…quite something.”

Stiles beamed for more than one reason. “Thanks! Fancy taking a ride in it?”

 

What should have been a quick spin ended up in a drive all the way back to Beacon Hills. They circled around the perimeter of the city for an hour and when possible, Stiles tried to make sure they were on raised ground so Al had a better view. He felt a little out of place, though, with Al’s noticeable silence and an almost faraway look in his eyes as he surveyed the city below. One hand was clenched tight in his lap; the other hovering by the window. 

He tried to keep his voice cheery as he described the many changes that had taken place since _Stiles_ was a kid, but doubted that Al was paying much attention, and a ball of lead settled in the pit of his stomach when he couldn’t get the man to smile even once. 

Feeling brave, Stiles stopped the car on a road shoulder and reached over to unclench Al’s fist before slipping their fingers together and squeezing once. Even though Al didn’t look up at him, he kept his gaze on their clasped hands and the corners of his eyes crinkled warmly, _gratefully_ , and Stiles counted that as a win. 

“Too soon?” he asked quietly, guiltily, but _blushed_ when Al brought their hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to the base of Stiles’ thumb. 

It hurt not a moment later. A breeze of nostalgia bringing with it his mother’s scent would have taken him to his knees had he not already been sitting. She used to kiss his hands exactly the same way. He quickly pushed the memories away; it wasn’t about him anymore. This was _Al’s_ pain. 

“You have helped me take the first step into this new world,” he murmured against Stiles’ skin, eyes closed, though a wrinkle had wedged itself between his eyebrows. “I am glad that I am not alone in this.”

Stiles huffed in subdued disbelief. “Hey, no way, man. I’d never leave you alone,” he said with a deep-rooted conviction. He wouldn't put someone through that. _Couldn’t_. “I’m _here_ for you, okay? Don’t go backing out on me now. And you’ll get used to this place in no time with me as your guide. It’ll be _fine_.”

Al turned to him and looked at him with old, tired eyes, his lips trembling as if he were trying for a smile but the feeling was too foreign and Stiles hurt for him, feeling helpless in the face of such deep-rooted sorrow. His mind returned to Al’s family, wondering why they weren’t around, but he refused to dwell on the niggling suspicions that danced in and out of his periphery. 

“I think it’s time I go back for the day. I am tired, Stiles.”

A swell of panic made him choke. “But we’ll hang out again tomorrow, right? I still have to show you-”

One minute he thought he was running out of breath and then the next the words had cut off from his lips and Al’s serious, anxious face was only a few inches away from his. The scent of sea mist invaded his nose, calming him somewhat, and a strange cool-warm weight on his shoulder made him realize that it was Al’s hand gripping him firmly, as if to keep him steady. 

Stiles swallowed thickly, the air flowing easier now, but still desperate for an answer. “You’re not vanishing on me, right? Seriously, man, we’ve only just-”

“Shh, Stiles,” Al whispered, brown eyes apologetic, as pained as they were. “I am not going anywhere. You know I cannot lie.”

Relief and guilt seemed like an odd mix of emotions to have simultaneously but they went together like bread and butter and Stiles would be lying if he said he wasn’t glad that Al couldn’t lie. But that would always be another extra level of power that Stiles had over him and he didn’t need any Uncle Ben to tell him that he was responsible for another person’s _life_. 

“I know,” he croaked, “I know you can’t.”

\--

As the son of a Sheriff slash self-declared detective, Stiles really should have surveyed the past evidence and arrived at the likely conclusion _before_ asking Scott if they could hang out at his place because he had more games and movies than Stiles did. 

So when he turned up in his rattling Jeep to find Isaac with one leg draped casually outside of Scott’s window and Allison’s car in the driveway, the ugly feeling of indignant surprise and anger was a result of his own ineptitude. But then Scott stuck his head out the window and beamed, waving like the inelegant werewolf he was and Stiles begrudgingly smiled back and got out of the car. 

He locked gazes with a tense-looking Isaac as he entered the room but blithely ignored him in favour of sliding next to Allison on the bed. 

“You’ve been busy,” she commented with a nudge. 

Stiles blinked, mind racing and pulling up alongside an image of Al. “Uh…so have you if your dad’s letting you out around Scott,” he said, deftly changing the subject. 

She snorted. “That’s old news. My dad’s…not _happy_ , but neither is he particularly _trigger_ -happy.”

“Oh. I guess that explains Surly Cheekbones over there.” He was entirely aware that Isaac heard him, but to his benefit, Isaac barely acknowledged it. 

Allison rolled her eyes, murmuring quietly, while Scott and Isaac spoke about something with cheeky grins on their faces, “My dad actually _likes_ Isaac. Says he’s charming or whatever.”

Stiles nodded noncommittally and then angled for casual. “Are you sufficiently charmed?”

“ _That_ doesn’t really work on me,” she laughed softly, her gaze moving to Scott and warming drastically. “ _That_ on the other hand…”

“All righty, then, you two are still very much nauseatingly in love, nice to know.”

She arched a dark brow. “You asked.”

“The wrong questions, obviously.” Upon noticing the sheer lack of snacks, though, he decided to interrupt the Scisaac flirt-fest, taking pleasure in the impatient look Isaac sent him. “Hey Scott, mind if I raid your kitchen? Your mom threatened to swing a bat at me the last time because I ate her fancy chocolate.”

Scott grinned. “She’s labelled her own cupboards now; raid away, bro.”

Scott always seemed to have a factory’s stock worth of junk food and Stiles attributed it to the fact that Melissa wasn’t always around to police the shit Scott used his monthly salary for. And considering the threeway upstairs, Stiles figured he might need at least an hour’s worth of food to get through it all before beating a hasty retreat home. 

He’d just been digging out the Coke from the fridge only to close the door and find none other than Scott’s Leathered Angel standing there, arms folded and looking severely put out. Stiles barely spared him a glance. 

“Whaddya need?” he asked, pulling out a large plastic bowl to serve as a food basket. 

“Allison started making out with Scott,” Isaac responded with a flat drawl and Stiles had to suppress a wicked smile. 

“Yeah,” he said casually, “ _couples_ tend to do that these days.”

“No shit,” he almost-snapped and Stiles turned around to see him positively _glaring_ at Stiles, like he was a piece of crap under his shoe. He was totally getting the _I’d rather say hello to a cockroach than you_ vibes and it seriously pissed him off because what the ever loving fuck, dude. 

But Stiles had always had a dirty, indirect way of issuing a confrontation and he had full knowledge of that fact that the calmer he appeared, the angrier the recipient got. 

“Verbose as ever, I see. I suppose monosyllabic sentences are part of your repertoire of being a Bad Boy, huh?”

“God, Scott was right; you _never_ stop talking,” Isaac growled in irritation, eyes on a random spot and unaware of the way Stiles stiffened because knowing that your best friend was talking about you with a _new_ nearly-best friend wasn’t exactly the most ego-boosting thing ever. There was also the fact that Isaac was making no effort to hide his own dislike of Stiles and he could appreciate the honesty in that. All their previous toeing the line crap could finally end and now they both knew where they stood with the other. 

Stiles decided to go for the direct approach. He was cruel like that. 

“So what’s your deal with Scott anyway? You follow him around like an abandoned dog who’s in serious need of some lovin’. Not that you’re _not_ lovable or anything. Y’know, for the right kind of people.”

The direct approach also meant zero tact and it didn’t look like Isaac was feeling that too much if his withering glare was anything to go by. Huh, he still managed to look like the by-product of a whimsical angel and a Greek statue. Some people just got _everything_. 

That wasn’t entirely fair, what with the abusive father and everything, and Stiles felt bad for having to hate Isaac like this but it wasn’t like the guy was making it _easy_ for Stiles to like him. 

“Scott’s a good friend,” Isaac said lowly. 

And well, wasn’t that just informative as fuck?

“Yeah, I know; I’ve been friends with him for a _long time_ , dude.” He honestly hadn’t meant to put that in there and the lack of intention served its purpose with a tone blasé enough for Isaac not to suspect that he was being a jealous little shit. 

Didn’t stop him from looking at Stiles sharply, reading his face with those stony blue eyes of his that Stiles had trouble keeping his face completely neutral. 

When he next spoke it was with a chilling sort of resolve that did nothing to raise Stiles’ opinion of him and only served to gouge that open wound of bitterness deeper. 

“I’m allowed to be friends with him, Stiles,” he said in a near whisper. 

Stiles smiled humourlessly. “Didn’t say you couldn’t. As long as that’s all it is; _friends_. Because I actually do like Allison, y’know? And I think you recall the last time someone tried to steal her boyfriend.” He winked and walked past Isaac’s tense form with a rough nudge against his shoulder and more bravado than he really felt. 

The chips rattled in their packets as he walked back upstairs, caught between feeling Isaac’s heavy gaze on his back and hoping that Scott and Allison had enough sense to let their guests back into the room. 

“You know, I hate to be the one to tell you this,” Isaac called, suddenly three steps behind him, making Stiles stop mid-step. “But Allison and I…we get along pretty well.” He sounded smug and insincerely apologetic and Stiles kind of wanted to shove the entire bowl of food and drinks at him. “You see, we have something in common,” he paused for effect and while at any other time Stiles would have mocked him for over dramatization, he wanted to hear this. “ _We_ have _Scott_.” 

Stiles’ lip curled in distaste but he still didn’t look back at Isaac. 

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, _Stiles_ ,” the way he drew out Stiles’ name was with the same brand of sick venom as dangling a piece of meat in front of a starving dog but snatching it out of reach at the last moment, “that Scott can make his own decisions. He’s a big boy now and he doesn’t need _you_ to watch his every step. Not when he’s got Mr Argent and the _Pack_ looking out for him. Especially not when he’s got two very _capable_ friends by his side.”

Stiles stood on the stairs staring into the bowl of food but not really seeing. Something dark and ugly uncoiled itself inside of him, gathering strength as Isaac brushed past him, taking the bowl from his hands with deft, werewolf claws out, scraping against the plastic. Stiles was on the verge of a great and damning internal destruction and all he had to do was step over the ledge. 

What Isaac said wasn’t true; Scott _did_ need him. Scott would have been utterly _lost_ without him had Stiles not been around to de-feral him at the beginning. Stiles had done _everything_ for Scott, had been his conscience, the voice of reason, their prime researcher. He had also been there to pull him out of increasingly deadly binds and it had been _Stiles_ , not anybody else, who had taught Scott how to be a _werewolf_ and not a teen wolf. 

He was _necessary_ , damnit. 

Isaac smiled, looking disgustingly unconvincingly concerned that Stiles nearly spat in his face. 

“Y’alright, Stilinski?”

Stiles glared at him coldly. “Fuck you,” he breathed, cursing silently when his phone vibrated in his pocket. 

Isaac’s smile only widened. “Might wanna get that.”

“Y’know, this whole bad boy shit deal you’ve got running isn’t as cool or intimidating as you think it is,” he sneered cruelly. 

He knew without having to look that it’d be his dad on the line and maintained eye contact with the unpleasant _turd_ of a werewolf and pressed the phone to his ear. 

“Yeah?”

 _”Son…”_ his dad began, sounding both anxious and exasperated. _“I know you’re busy but, uh…just get here now. Please.”_

Inhaling sharply, Stiles tore his gaze away from Isaac’s retreating back. “You okay, dad?”

There was a pause where Stiles held his breath. _“I’m fine but - stop touching it!”_

“Dad!?” 

With a huff, his dad hastily asked him to just get home _now_ before abruptly hanging up. 

Stiles had approximately five seconds to realize that his dad had just saved him from an afternoon of utter angst – yet again, though this time for real – and that he’d spoken more to Isaac than his actual mark – Scott. 

Fuck his life. 

 

In the bedroom, Allison, Scott and Isaac were lined up on the bed watching a movie - _Gravity_ \- on Scott’s computer, the bowl of food between them. And while Allison and Scott looked up when Stiles entered, Isaac’s eyes flickered once to him and then back to the show. Not that Stiles had expected anything else, honestly. He had a whole archive of puns listing themselves out as he stood there, most of them having to do with keeping the catfights outside the bedroom. 

“Isaac said your dad called? Sorry we didn’t wait for you.” Scott looked sheepish. Maybe it was just the earlier emotional blip but Stiles felt a little resentful nonetheless because in some ways it was as if Scott had _expected_ Stiles to be heading home anyway. No way would he stay and watch the movie with them because apparently this was Scott-Isaac-Allison time! Whoo, a party that he wasn’t invited to – essentially his entire middle and high school life in a nutshell. 

But he plastered a grin on his face anyway because whatever, he didn’t care. He had a fucking _kelpie_. “Gotta jet. Sounded urgent.” 

He waited a few moments to see if anyone would express any concern on his or his dad’s behalf at all but Scott merely nodded in understanding. 

“Everything okay?” Allison – bless her soul – asked, frowning. 

“Yeah. Should be, I think.” 

She smiled reassuringly and Stiles grabbed his bag and left with a noncommittal backward wave, his hands feeling strangely numb on every surface he touched on his way to his Jeep. He’d barely been there for half an hour, he noted, eyeing the bright, Matrix-green numbers of his car’s digital clock. 

Complete waste of an afternoon and way more soul baring than he’d ever wanted to experience, least of all with Isaac Lahey. 

When the sunlight filtered through the dense layer of cloud, he was briefly blinded by a flash of silver from the little magazine compartment in his door. Stiles stared at it for a moment too long, the feel of the heavy metal a painfully delicious sort of phantom weight in his palm. Werewolves might have been stronger but with everything Stiles knew and had in his possession it would have been _so easy_ to go back inside and really _hurt-_

Stiles gunned the engine and drove home, feeling itchy, uncomfortable eyes on him the whole way.

\--

The first thing he did when he burst through the door was call out, “Dad?” only to stop short when he saw a familiar leather jacket hanging off the banister at the foot of the stairs, looking like it had just been run through a combine harvester. A rope of worry constricted itself around Stiles’ heart.

“Da-?”

“Stiles? You back?”

His dad came around from the TV room, looking perplexed but otherwise physically unharmed. He wasn’t in uniform, Stiles realized, and then remembered that it was his day off. Stiles released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and looked past his dad’s shoulder, eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“What’s he doing here?”

If his voice came out surlier than usual, it was justified by the fact that there was a werewolf probably lounging on his couch and that was just a no no. 

“Easy, kid,” his dad said with a grin and slinging an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “You, uh, might wanna take a look for yourself. And whatever it is you’re thinking, it’s probably… _definitely_ not what you think.”

What did that even mean?

Allowing himself to be led into the living room, Stiles wondered to himself what exactly Derek had gotten himself in trouble with this time – and why Scott and Isaac hadn’t been informed. And also why he’d decided to show up at _Stiles’_ house of all places. Also where the hell was Cora? 

Instead of the couch, Derek was seated in Stiles’ dad’s very comfortable, very soft chair – he had a bad back – with his arms folded but not in their usual manner of decided intimidation. He was gripping his forearms, sleeves rolled up to reveal very raw-looking, bloody skin. Stiles absently noticed that someone had put a dark brown towel across Derek’s lap to keep the blood off the furniture. 

Derek looked up when Stiles entered and did something with his mouth that was a cross between a sheepish smile and a grimace, though his eyes flickered down to his arms in irritation and his fingers twitched, morphing between human and clawed. 

Stiles exhaled. “Whoa. What happened to you?”

Derek shrugged, eyes very focused on the corner of the coffee table as if he couldn't meet Stiles’ eyes. “Ran into a bit of trouble,” he said vaguely, pointedly avoiding eye contact, which did nothing to ease Stiles’ suspicion. 

Stiles’ dad cleared his throat, effectively gaining their attention. He looked a little like he didn’t know what to make of the situation and a little bit like he wanted to laugh but was unsure why the urge was so strong. 

“You boys play nice, now. And Derek,” he said with a stern glint in his eyes, making the Big Strong Alpha Hale straighten in his seat. His dad smiled twistedly, and Stiles could see that he was chuffed that he still had the whole deputy interrogation thing going strong in the face of a werewolf. “You make sure Stiles gets a good look at that. There’s some bandages under the sink upstairs.”

Derek blinked, looking back and forth between Stiles’ dry expression and his father’s serene smile. “Uh, yessir,” he said quickly, nodding, a motion that was made funnier by the way a dry leaf fell from his hair and onto his nose. He shook his head quickly to dislodge it and Stiles bit back what would have been a loud and inelegant guffaw when the tips of Derek’s ears actually _pinked_. 

His dad left with a meaningful look at Stiles, who rolled his eyes and shooed him away with a bat of his hand. 

“All righty, mister, now tell me what _really_ happened,” he demanded, arms folded expectantly. 

Derek scowled. “It’s not what you think.”

“You’re the second person to tell me that and the only way to refute what I _think_ is to tell me what actually went down, don’t you agree?” Stiles arched a brow and cocked his hip to the side. He wondered whether his foot would start tapping impatiently of its own volition to complete the _I’m waiting_ exterior. “Because all this?” He waved his hand at Derek’s wounded arms. “I don’t even know what to make of the fact that you’re _here_.” He paused, watching Derek’s reaction, which was pretty much non-existent. “Like, in my _house_.” Still nothing. So he opted for a different angle. “Why aren’t you healing, dude?” he demanded, near hysterical. 

The withering glare he received came from a guy who’d been in the doghouse all night and was asked whether he slept well. 

Still, it didn’t answer Stiles’ question so he continued to stand there waiting for the miserable man to speak. 

 

With a heavy sigh, Derek looked up at him in resignation. “If you help me clean this up I’ll tell you.”

“Uh, _no_. You’ll tell me and then I’ll-”

“Please, Stiles.”

Stiles’ mouth shut with an audible click. It wasn’t like Derek _never_ said the magic word – although those were far and in between – but the tone he used, the beseeching, gentle, _soft_ voice that Stiles had heard on thoroughly rare occasions tugged on his heartstrings for no reason he could identify. Pressing his lips together and shifting his weight from foot to foot Stiles finally caved and nodded slightly. 

“Okay, fine. Imma clean that up first but you’re gonna need to tell me what it was if you want me to be able to get you healing right.”

“I will,” Derek affirmed, forest eyes grateful and honest and Stiles wanted to throw a pillow at him because _no_. He was _not_ allowed to look at Stiles like that. Shooting him one final defensive glare, Stiles hurried into the kitchen to fill a bowl with warm water. He ran to the backyard, bypassing a curious-looking Derek along the way – and if that wasn’t an adorable sight, Stiles didn’t know what was – to pluck a leaf off his aloe plant and a couple other sprigs from here and there and then ran back into the kitchen, this time catching Derek in the middle of licking a particularly nasty looking gash. “Stop touching it!” he snapped along the way. 

He came back out to Derek sitting contritely with his hands on his lap, twitching occasionally, which Stiles thought was due to either the itch or the sting. 

“So,” he began conversationally, setting the bowl down by his knees, which were nearly pressed against Derek’s socked feet. “How come you aren’t at Deaton’s?”

Derek pursed his lips and allowed Stiles to gingerly pull one hand from his lap and wrap a damp, squeezed towel around the arm, pressing against the wounds to absorb any blood and dirt. 

“He wasn’t in.”

“Did you call?”

“He told me to see you.”

Oh. Well. 

He hummed in understanding as he wrapped the other arm up, performing the same motions. He worked in silence, rinsing the towels in the water solution he’d made, re-wrapping Derek’s arms and changing the water twice until it ran clear and blood and pus weren’t one entire congealed, crusted mass on his skin. Derek didn’t complain the entire time. 

Stiles frowned, absently running his clean fingers up and down the strange wounds. “Are these…these look like _bites_. And scratches. What the hell, Derek?” He looked up and met Derek’s eyes, which were green-brown in the dusky light and nearly squirmed when Derek didn’t speak for a moment too long. 

“They _are_ bites. And scratches.” His words were stiff as if revealing the truth was something uncomfortable to him. 

“Seriously? _You_ got bitten? By _what_ exactly?” Stiles looked at them again, lightly tapping a raised mark. “You’re not gonna suddenly turn into one of these, are you?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “They weren’t shape shifters, Stiles. I doubt that’ll be an issue.”

“Uh, considering our history, it’s a relevant question, dude.” 

Seeing as Derek still didn’t seem in the mood to talk, Stiles went to clean the bowl and throw the towels into the washing machine. He went back to Derek with a roll of bandages his dad had mentioned and a few jars that Derek looked at with mistrust. 

“Relax; it’s just a bunch of things to help with the healing. Which would probably be easier to do if you’d tell me what bit you,” he hinted, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. But Derek kept mums so with an exaggerated sigh, he settled himself down on the floor again and got to work on the mortar and pestle, waiting for the inevitable questions. 

It didn’t take long. 

“What’re those?”

Stiles flickered his eyes up once as he continued to grind. 

“Honey,” he said, nodding to a jar, “turmeric,” then to another, “and these are dried chamomile flowers. Antiseptic, healing and soothing properties.” It didn’t smell particularly nice but Derek didn’t complain. “Might sting a little but unlike actual medicine this stuff’s all natural and Deaton said it won’t interfere with the whole supernatural element.” 

“You learned all this from Deaton?” He sounded surprised and leaned in for a closer look as Stiles began mixing the turmeric in with the honey. 

“Nah. Deaton just told me that most of the time chemical concoctions didn’t do anything for supernatural creatures or had bad side effects. He gave me a list of everyday things that wouldn’t make you break out in hives or whatever.”

“Oh.” 

Stiles smiled to himself at Derek’s tone, like how kids sounded when they’d just been taught something new at school. This Derek was still an Alpha. But he was also something else – something boyish and so _young_. He liked this Derek and he liked his silence, like a kid who’d messed up somehow and was making up for it while someone did damage control. It was just the sort of quiet company he needed after that afternoon and reminiscent of the afternoon they spent eating burgers and hotdogs and drinking root beer floats. Again, most of that was Stiles, but the principle was still there.

He wondered, as he used his fingers to spread the sticky, greenish paste onto Derek’s arms, whether Derek could smell Isaac, Scott and Allison on him, and why he hadn’t said anything if he did. 

Oh well, honesty for honesty, he thought. 

“I was at Scott’s today.”

Derek made a hum-grunt in response. 

“Allison was there. So was Isaac.”

“Mm.”

Stiles felt his lips twitch. “I didn’t kill Isaac. And I could have, y’know?” If he sounded proud of himself, it was completely reasonable given the circumstances and Stiles’ usual lack of control. 

“I don’t doubt it.”

He looked up, surprised, hands pausing. “Really?”

Derek shrugged. “You’re stronger than you look most of the time.”

“Huh.” Feeling oddly pleased, he beginning the task of wrapping Derek’s arms, slathered in green, up with the bandages, reminding himself to layer them so his herbal combo didn’t seep through too much. “Nice to know someone appreciates my skillset.”

Derek smiled lopsidedly, looking at Stiles’ hands at work and Stiles felt his heart skip a quiet beat. 

“Water voles,” he said quietly, gruffly. 

Stiles frowned. “What?”

“I was bitten by _water voles_ ,” he articulated in a low voice, lips twisted in distaste. Stiles just blinked. “They’re the only rodents that actually get aggressive in the presence of werewolves,” he explained, and Stiles could tell he was trying to ramble and sort of failing spectacularly in diverting Stiles’ attention _off_ the fact he’d been attacked by _mice_. “Laura’s feet got bitten pretty bad once, when she was a kid. She couldn't go to school for a few days.” He looked down at his hands ruefully. “Slows down our healing a lot too.”

His mouth made a small ‘o’ of understanding before he grit his teeth, focusing intently on his task. 

“How did it happen?” he asked casually a muscle in his cheek twitching.

The weight of Derek’s stare fell heavily on his head but Stiles continued to work. 

“I accidentally walked into their nest when I stopped for a drink at a stream after my run,” he told Stiles flatly. 

“Ah.”

Stiles tied off one arm and then got to work on the other, trying hard to wrap his own head around that little bit of information. Derek was tense under his hands and after a while he couldn’t help himself anymore and succumbed to his baser urges.

“Water voles,” he murmured thoughtfully under his breath, looking up with narrowed eyes. 

Derek stared back at him, face expressionless. 

The smile Stiles had been trying hard to suppress forced itself free and he tilted his head apologetically when Derek looked increasingly perturbed and weary. 

“Water voles,” Derek confirmed emotionlessly. 

What remained of his personal strength seeped out of him together with the huff of laughter that escaped his throat. “Water voles,” he repeated, vibrating with laughter. 

Derek continued to look at him and he sighed, resigned, before he cracked a small, embarrassed smile, shaking his head either at himself or at Stiles’ lack of delicacy for his werewolf sensitivities. 

Stiles snorted and began to laugh in earnest and Derek just brought his fully bandaged hand up and pinched the bridge of his nose, chuckling to himself under his breath and the sound really was quite lovely to Stiles’ ears. 

Derek spent the evening there and Stiles’ dad let him stay for dinner, during which time he continued to pester Derek for information about water voles and other critters that had adverse effects on werewolves. 

It was the first time that he’d ever felt this relaxed around Derek, this _open_ , he realized at one point over dinner, and his solid, warm presence was very nearly enough to nullify everything that had happened earlier in the day. Just as it had been during that quiet, albeit awkward afternoon when he’d left school early and Derek had just _been there_ : silent, unmovable and _enough_.


	8. Flyaways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles becomes Cora's person because sometimes he actually can listen. Al doesn't quite take to the modern world very well and Deaton remains a sadist in the face of a Stiles-Derek faceoff. But Derek's hand is too hot and too heavy and his face is too close and not close enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason they call it a Masters is because everything's on a whole other level. At least in my case. Also, I might have been over-ambitious in the number of modules I thought I could handle this semester. I could apologise but the fact is that it was unavoidable at this point in the semester so yeah. My frustrations and stress miiight be evident in this chapter but I hope it's not too awful. :( Thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter! You guys are my raison d'etre. Or at least the reason I keep writing this story, no matter how far and in between the updates are. :) It's a shorter chapter this time because I just didn't want you guys to keep waiting. My plans for having this finished before the new year are, at this point, out of reach...
> 
> As usual, this is un-betaed so please let me know if you spot any mistakes! And suggestions or thoughts of the fic are ALWAYS welcome. :)

When Stiles heard the familiar hum of Derek’s Camaro pull up out back, it was totally the stress from realising that he needed to run and open the back door and leave his pan of frying mushrooms untended that made his heart skip a beat. Totally. But he sucked it up like the big boy he was and just lowered the flame and skittered to the back, unconsciously patting himself down – there wasn’t exactly much hope for his greasy man-apron that really needed a go in the washing machine – before pulling open the door. 

He was so not prepared for Cora, looking like a woman on a rampage, to storm past him, her face red and hair mussed. She looked like a very pissed off cat with her hair standing on end. 

“Uh, Cor-?”

She hissed, hands clenched at her side as she paced back and forth, effectively blocking Stiles’ way back to the frying pan, looking up at him a couple of times with a hard glare that made him pause. He was preeeetty sure he hadn’t done anything to piss her off. Or to piss Derek off by association. Or anyone else in the Pack. Because Stiles was a good boy, he was. 

He hedged into conversation. “Shall I get you a dr-?”

“I _can’t_ -!” she cut herself off, human, feminine hands clawed like she just couldn't express herself well enough, but thankfully not transformed because Stiles really didn’t want to be used as werewolf target practice. “She’s just _so_ -! And _I_ was there too!”

Stiles opened and closed his mouth like a fish, nodding both uselessly and helplessly. “Sounds like a real bitch,” he agreed, sucking his lips in. 

Cora didn’t look like she heard him, getting more ruffled by the second, so when Stiles’ dad appeared in the doorway, he threw his hands out in the international sign for ‘Stop’ and then motioned to Cora’s restless self, shrugging exaggeratedly, eyes wide. His dad paused and raised a questioning brow, lingering awkwardly by the doorjamb, unsure whether to come to his only son’s rescue or leave the teenage angst for an rerun of _Cheers_. 

Cora ran an aggravated, shaking hand through her hair, mussing it up further, and Stiles pictured her driving all the way here, red-faced and fiery-eyed like a gorgeous hell hound and wondered how no one had pulled her over for road rage. 

“And she think she has the _right_ to speak to me like that when she’s a _nobody!_ ” she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. “ _I_ am a _born werewolf;_ That actually means something! I’m also the Alpha’s _sister_ so what right does she have-!” she cut herself off again, visibly boiling beneath her skin.

Stiles’ mind flashed immediately to Lydia; the two never did have a very good relationship and banshees had never really been portrayed as anything other than vocal. He wondered what Lydia might have brought up this time and decided to broach the subject with caution. 

“You and Lydia argue again, then?”

Cora’s head snapped so quickly to his he was afraid it would fly off. “ _Lydia?_ ” she repeated, sounding the very meaning of offended. “I’m not talking about Lydia. I’m _talking_ about fucking _ERICA!_ ” 

And then there were teeth and real werewolf claws and flashing golden eyes as she howled in anger, her face morphing into her beta form. Stiles stumbled back as she stalked towards him, one finger pointed at him. 

“Just because I joined the Pack later than she did doesn’t mean _she_ gets to tell me what to do! And she’s always acting so spoilt and prissy like she fucking owns _Derek’s_ place!” Cora continued to rant, her voice coming out in a mixture of her usual human tones and a guttural growl. “She shows _no respect_ for anyone! And I had a _mug_ , and you know what she did?” Stiles gaped at her, caught between being completely frightened for his life and utterly bewildered by all the new information she was shooting his way. 

“Uh-”

“She _drank from it!_ ” she screeched. “After I fucking told her _not_ to touch it!”

Stiles hadn’t realized she’d gotten hold of his wrists until he felt her _squeeze_ them a little too hard. 

“Cora, you-!”

“ _Miss Hale_.” 

Cora whirled around and Stiles tilted his head so he could see over her shoulder. And there was his dad. With a freaking _frying pan_ \- though thankfully not the one with the mushrooms, which were going to _burn_ , hello – and with his stern Sheriff face on. 

“Kindly let go of my son,” he said slowly, placating, “and you two can take this conversation into the living room. Civilly.”

Cora’s jaw worked, like she was trying to say something but the words just weren’t coming. She glanced down at her hands, still clasping Stiles’ wrists, and let go as if they’d burned her. 

“I…sorry.” Her face smoothed back until Stiles was looking at a very cowed, upset looking _human_ face, and she stood there between them, wringing her hands nervously. “Sorry, Sir. Werewolf tempers and all,” was her lame explanation, accompanied by a little shrug. 

Stiles chuckled breathlessly, still slightly shocked, inching towards his mushrooms and giving them a final stir before turning off the heat. “No kidding.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled again, biting her lip and her face was flushed an embarrassed pink. 

“That’s okay, sweetheart,” Stiles’ dad said kindly, in one of those tones that parents used strictly on children they held dear but weren’t their own. “You look like you could do with a hot chocolate.”

“Shame we don’t have any; I make a mean hot choc,” Stiles interjected, beaming a little too widely, eyeing his dad with a little glint in his eye that said, _I know what you’re doing and NO, you cannot have any, you sly man_. His dad just scowled in response and ushered them both out of the kitchen. 

“I’ll take over dinner – _don't_ give me that look, Stiles – you two do what you need to.”

Up in Stiles’ room, Cora immediately took her usual spot and leaned against the headboard, her legs folded into her chest. Stiles sat in front of her, feeling a little out of his depth because his track record for comforting heartbroken girls didn’t prophesize a promising outcome. 

“So, what’s this about Erica?”

Cora promptly burst into tears – actual, sobbing, chest heaving, snotty teary _tears_. 

Stiles may or may not have freaked out and all but fallen out of the bed at her reaction because was it something he _said?_ Was there some unspoken rule in the girl code about not getting down to the issue lest a girlfriend turns on the water works? 

“Holy sh- Uh, whoa, Cora, okay, uh…fuck.” He flailed his arms a little before reaching for the tissue box and pulling out a couple, shoving them in front of her helplessly. Cora just looked up, puffy-eyed, and plucked the tissues from him and pressed them to her eyes, sniffing and shuddering heartbreakingly. Stiles bit his lip and tentatively laid a hand on her knee. “Shit, Cora. I didn’t even know you _had_ tear ducts.” 

That startled a wet laugh out of her and she wiped her nose, which had turned shiny, red and swollen. “You didn’t see me when I thought Boyd…” she trailed off, her voice cracking at his name, her face breaking again, as she lowered her head again, massaging her forehead. “Sometimes I wish _she_ -” she cut herself off again, for the millionth time, looking away guiltily. “That’s an awful thing to say,” Cora muttered to herself, looking up at Stiles ruefully. 

He shrugged, getting only half the story but filling in the gaps slowly. “We’re only human. Half-human in your case.” He smiled, sliding up next to her and sliding an arm around her shoulders. “So, wanna tell me what Heels ‘n’ Short Skirts has done now?”

Cora laughed again and Stiles counted that as a win, leaning in to rest her head next to his. 

“She told me to stay away from Boyd,” she said bitterly after a long pause. “That was last night. He’s…we _bonded_ when the Alphas…in the bank and…” She sighed heavily, sniffing quietly, but Stiles frowned at something she said. 

“Wait, when you say _bonded_ -”

She laughed thickly. “Not that kind of bonded. That’s a mating ritual for wolves and something more like…marriage for werewolves.”

For some reason Stiles felt relieved on Cora’s part because, well, he knew there was a very real and very deep bond between Erica and Boyd and Cora had kind of stumbled in on that without Erica’s permission. If Allison wasn’t one to share _Erica_ was probably downright possessive. 

Stiles swallowed, a little nervously, and then said, “That sucks, dude.”

“It gets worse,” she snorted. “She pretty much cock-blocked me every time I tried to talk to Boyd this morning.”

“I don’t think you can use cock-blocked like that-”

“And _he_ ,” she continued pointedly, “looked like he didn’t know _what_ to do. I suppose I should feel grateful that he didn’t explicitly take sides. Isaac tried to distract me by talking to me because Erica was _this_ fucking close to wolfing out.” The scathing tone she used when she said Erica’s name was something he could relate to whenever he thought of Isaac. But Cora’s problems were probably a lot more pressing what with the literal lack of privacy or space in a pack like Derek’s. He wondered whether this was one of the reasons people left werewolf packs. It was, admittedly, less dramatic than Alphas killing their own pack members for power because that, dude, _not cool._ “Her lack of control is _pathetic_ ,” she spat, and Stiles inwardly winced, rubbing her knee absently, mentally deciding not to say anything about women and scorn and Shakespeare. 

“Have you spoken to Derek?” he asked gently, absently handing her another tissue, which she used to blow her stuffy nose. 

“Derek?” She laughed scornfully. Ha. Like _a million_ levels of scorn. “The guy whose love life Homer would’ve had an aneurism over?”

The laugh escaped him before he could contain himself. “Good point.”

“And besides,” she continued, “I’m not a tattle tale. I just needed to vent my frustrations.”

“And your heartbreak.” Ouch. Shouldn’t have said that. Again - _zero_ tact on his part. 

Cora scowled at him but grudgingly admitted, “And my heartbreak.”

They sat in silence for a while until Stiles’ arm started going numb so he shoved her over a little and shook it out wildly, mostly to try and make her laugh. Which she did. Yay Stiles! They went down for dinner a little later, which was thankfully edible and while Stiles sent his dad a glare at the three, large meatball subs that had somehow made their way onto the table, he let it go when his dad took an extra helping of Stiles’ garlic mushrooms. 

Cora ended up staying the night, while Stiles’ dad had instigated, much to his surprise. She’d blushed but nodded gratefully, hopeful gaze flickering to Stiles once and then back to her food, which she inhaled with gusto. Crying often built up an appetite, he found. After his mom had died he’d become an experienced post-cry-eater. 

“Sorry for crashing your weekend,” she mumbled, pressed up against his back. He’d lent her a pair of too-small track bottoms and a sweater he’d forgotten he’d owned. 

Stiles snorted softly, eyes closed. “S’okay. I can’t really complain when there’s a girl in my bed.”

She nudged him with her knee but Stiles heard her huff a soft laugh. “The rest of the Pack – other than Derek – will be wondering whether we slept together.”

“Ha. You should be so lucky.”

She nudged him again, harder this time. 

“I’m helping your sexual history cred, asshole. Be thankful.”

Stiles smiled and then thought back to what she’d said earlier. “Wait, why won’t Derek think you slept with me? You sure I won’t have an over-protective werewolf brother after my ass thinking I decimated your virtue?”

“Alpha noses. Stronger,” was all she said, which made sense in the sleepy state he was in. “But I’m sure Derek will still be after your ass. It’s a nice ass.”

“Oh.” Her words made him feel warm inside for reasons he was definitely not in the right mental state to contemplate and he burrowed deeper into the sheets. “That’s nice of him.”

And that was probably his cue to fall asleep to the sound of Cora sniggering behind him. 

\--

“This is strange music you listen to.” Al frowned; eyes fixed on Stiles’ radio as most people were wont to doing. “What language is this?” he asked curiously – adorably, in Stiles’ opinion. 

“Rap,” he answered, biting back a grin. “English but rap. Humans have a hard time deciphering the words so don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Al hummed to himself, shaking his head as he leaned in closer to listen. “Strange, indeed. Like some sort of _chant_.”

Stiles laughed loudly, keeping his eyes on the road because it was wet and rainy and he could really do without any more points on his licence or his baby. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

Al’s lake and the surrounding area had been changing little by little over the weeks that Stiles had been visiting. There was still the same, subdued atmosphere. But it felt _sleepy_ , which meant that at some point it would wake up and Stiles would be lying if he said he wasn’t anticipating Spring time. 

“Okay, so let’s go through this again, yeah?” Stiles said, feeling an odd mixture of worried and breathlessly excited. “First stop is the grocery store. Then the bookstore. After that we’ll have some lunch and dessert and then bounce over to the station where dad works.” He mentally listed their itinerary, fingers folding in on themselves as he worked through the schedule. The Big Reveal was today – Big because this was his _dad_ they were talking about and while he’d accepted the whole supernatural element to Beacon Hills, Stiles had yet to bring someone _other_ than a werewolf to meet his father. It was ten times worse than meeting the in-laws. True, the man wasn’t as trigger-happy as Chris Argent, but the fact that his arms knowledge was exceptionally thorough turned out to be both a mental and physical hurdle. 

Stiles also liked to think that his dad wouldn’t make a scene at his own workplace – a tactic his dad would sniff out within the first three seconds of them entering his office. 

Also, _Al_. 

The kelpie was fucking _adorable_ in all his naiveté and wonder about the new world. He _really_ wanted his dad to like him and accept him into their home without having to sneak around anymore because there were way too many derivative connotations. 

Not that they were having sex. Because that…would be one of the most awkward experiences of his life. Just thinking about it gave him to heebie jeebies. It was as if he was _tainting_ the guy with his dirty thoughts. Al was an innocent sproutling who needed human guidance, even if it was from the world’s worst teenage teacher. 

It was the thought that counted. 

Mercifully, the first half of the itinerary went according to plan. Al had a fantabulous time plucking things off the shelves and asking Stiles why they were so brightly colored, where this fruit came from and why he didn’t like that vegetable. He also developed an affinity for the crinkly sound of plastic packaging and held a packet of sour cream and chives chips, just crinkling it with his fingers for the good part of an hour. When he finally opened the packet and started eating, he even complained that the bag was half empty. Stiles ended up buying five party-sized packs of differing flavours. 

Retail therapy was apparently something he’d have to speak to Al about at some point. 

The bookstore was an even bigger sideshow, magnified by the fact that the first thing Al was attracted to was a gigantic, sparkly pink children’s book called _Princess Sapphire and the Pink Dragon_. What the fuck even. 

Stiles ended up having to reassure Al that there was no such thing as dragons in this day and age, much less _pink_ dragons. And nobody called their daughters ‘Sapphire’ either. At least, he hadn’t met a Sapphire. He’d met a Sapphira, which was completely different. Partly because she’d been a warrior elf on one of his MMORPGs. 

By around one o’ clock Al looked a little bit peaky, the medium tone of his skin melting into a sallow, green-tinged wax that made Stiles’ brows furrow in concern. 

“You feeling okay?” he asked as they walked into an easy fast-food joint, a different branch to his usual haunt. 

Al smiled weakly and nodded. “Yes. I am just in need of sustenance.”

“Sustenance?” he repeated, arching a brow. “Easier word: _food_. Basically, you’re hungry.”

With a roll of his deep eyes, Al nodded begrudgingly. “It is as if nobody has time to _speak_ in this age.”

Stiles forced a laugh but didn’t comment. It was a kind grace to refrain from reminding Al of how much time had passed. Introducing him into the world had to be slow and steady, step by little step. He was already overwhelmed with adaption to the new air and sounds and sights. Social dynamics could wait for now. 

When their food came, Stiles dug into his philly steak tortilla with the savagery of a starving man – which he was because he was _always_ hungry. 

After about the fourth bite, however, he noticed that Al had barely touched his food and was leaning with one elbow on the table, rubbing his forehead, which was creased in pain. 

“Shit. Al? What’s wrong?”

“I’m – I’m not –” He moaned quietly, something that made his chest constrict, because ever since meeting him, Al had tried hard to suppress his fear and anxiety for the sake of showing determination in the face of all this modernity. He wondered whether Al felt _ashamed_ by weakness. The fae were proud beings, he’d discovered. But he didn’t have to be that way in front of Stiles. “It…hard to breathe,” he slurred, pushing himself up from the seat and hobbling towards the exit. 

Stiles pushed his chair back loudly, ignoring the questioning eyes, and slung Al’s arm around his shoulders, supporting as much of his weight as he could carry. 

“What can I do?” he demanded as they stepped outside. Al felt feverish and hot against him, leaning into Stiles as his knees buckled. “Al? Al, you need to tell me what- _fuck!_ ” he cursed as Al heaved, muscles of his abdomen straining painfully. Nothing came forth from his mouth and Stiles led him towards the Jeep, which, _shit_ , was a good five minute’s _normal_ walk, not to mention they had to meander around rows of cars in the parking lot. Al wasn’t exactly light and Stiles wasn’t particularly strong. “Hold on, hold on, hold on,” he whispered continuously under his breath, fear trickling in when Al heaved loudly again, this time a thick, gray substance dripping slowly from his mouth. It smelled awful and Stiles’ stomach lurched unpleasantly. 

“Too much,” Al rasped, and his throat sounded clogged, as if he was trying to suppress his gag reflex. 

“T-too much what?” Stiles breathed frantically. He didn’t even have the mental capacity to feel ashamed that his eyes were watering in his panic. 

Al coughed violently and spat out more gray sludge and it landed on the asphalt with a sickening _slap_. “Toxic.”

“Toxic?” he repeated mindlessly, trying to urge Al on. If anybody noticed them they didn’t bother helping and Stiles felt a surge of rage and indignation at whomever had just walked on by. “S’it the iron?” he demanded again, supporting Al with an arm around his waist as he bent over, mouth bursting with whatever poison Stiles had exposed him to. 

Just when Stiles thought he needed to call his dad for help, he noticed someone else through the corner of his eye and recognized him immediately. 

“Derek!” he called, bordering on hysterical. Derek was already striding towards them, his face a mixture of angry – the kind of angry where Stiles was in trouble – and concerned. 

He came up to them and immediately relieved Stiles of Al’s weight, hefting the kelpie’s arm around his neck while he wrapped his other arm around Al’s waist. Stiles watched the very moment that Derek stiffened, his nose twitching, and then turned an accusatory glare Stiles’ way. 

“What’ve you _done?_ ”

“Nothing!” he snapped, hands shaking from fear of Al or fear of Derek or a combination of both. “We need to take him to Deaton! My – my Jeep’s-”

Derek flashed him one more angry look before cursing and all but carrying Al to Stiles’ car. 

“S-sit with him in the back. Don’t let him choke.” The keys jingled in his hands but it took a frustrating moment for him to finally slot it in and gun the engine. Derek must have complied for Stiles took off the moment the back door shut. 

It was a tense drive to Deaton’s; Stiles could feel the rising number of questions as much as he could feel the myriad of facial expressions – mostly _Imma kill you, bitch_ \- being directed at his back, but whatever attention wasn’t on the road was focused on Al’s laboured breathing and quiet moans of pain. 

“S…Stilesss,” he called with drowsy desperation. 

“You’re okay, Al, you’re fine. Just food poisoning; nothing to worry about.” Whether he was trying to reassure Al or himself wasn’t something he’d ever know, but he forced a cheery smile at Al’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. He deliberately avoided looking at Derek’s fierce gaze and sighed in relief when he slid to a stop outside Deaton’s. 

He practically burst through the door, Derek following behind, supporting Al and silently praised God when he saw a semi-shocked Deaton standing behind the counter. 

“Stiles-”

“No time! Al needs help!” On cue, Al heaved all over Derek’s shoes and Deaton seemed to get the message as he got his game face on and told them to flip the sign on the front doo and then follow him to the back. 

“Put him down on the bed,” he ordered, rummaging through a cupboard that Stiles hadn’t noticed. “What is he?” 

When Deaton looked at the both of them with a calm expectancy, it took a moment for Stiles to recall that Derek had no clue about Al until today. 

He swallowed thickly. “Kelpie,” he murmured, and Derek looked at him so fast his neck must’ve cracked. “Tell me what to do.” Derek would have to be dealt with later. Like, hopefully a _lot_ later. 

“Fill one of the tubs with water. Irish moss and sea fennel. Half a jar each.” 

Stiles did as he was told, keeping one eye on Deaton the whole time. He fed Al a teaspoon of black salt mixed with a rose-coloured solution and then immediately thrust a bucket under his mouth when Al threw up some more. It went like that for a while; Deaton feeding Al the mixture and Al throwing up the gray stuff with Derek supporting him from behind. 

When Stiles chanced a glance, he met Derek’s unreadable gaze and pressed his lips together before mouthing, _I’m sorry._ Derek didn’t say anything in return or make a gesture of affirmation, so Stiles turned away again, hands shaking. 

Just when he thought they’d gotten past a hurdle in their relationship. Stiles felt his face burn with irrational shame, feeling like a kid who’d done something stupid and irredeemable in front of his crush. 

_Crush_. 

The word was like a hot potato. He didn’t want to dwell on it more than he needed to – like, ever – especially when there was a very ill kelpie whose life was potentially in his hands. 

“Stiles,” Al whispered, and Stiles jumped, rushing to his side immediately, trying not to get in Deaton’s way. 

“Hey, man.” The weakness of his voice made him cringe. No need to put the guy under the assumption that it was bad. It wasn’t that bad. At least he was throwing up less and his skin looked much warmer. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Food poisoning on our first day out. And I thought you were made of stronger stuff.”

Al laughed, a wheezing sound from too much acid and salt in his throat. “The fae are prone to acts of pride.”

“No kidding.”

Deaton caught Stiles’ eyes and nodded. “We’ll move him to the bath now. You’ll be just fine in no time,” he said reassuringly, speaking directly to Al for the first time.

Al smiled, that encouraging, sincere smile that Stiles had grown to enjoy coercing out of him. “My thanks, Witch.”

And it didn’t even sound like an insult. Huh. Must’ve met lots of witches back in the day. Not that he’d ever describe Deaton as one. He was more like a mysterious magical consultant. 

When Derek lowered Al into the tub, clothes and all, the kelpie sighed deeply, his face taking on a tranquil expression and all the lines of pain unfolding themselves from his skin. He even smiled a little before submerging his body and head entirely. Derek jerked forward to pull him back up but Stiles placed his hand on his arm and shook his head. 

‘He’s fine, Derek. Don’t worry; he can breathe. It’s good for him.” Something on his face must not have been very convincing for Derek continued to look at him, a crease between his brows. Or he was still peeved that Stiles had disobeyed an Alpha’s command and gone back into the woods without him to have a magical powwow with his fae forest friends. Try saying that ten times faster. “I, uh, heh, hope he doesn’t suddenly turn back into a horse because _awkward_ , right?” 

Derek’s face remained stoic. Clearly not the time for joking. 

“How long?” Derek demanded coolly. 

It wasn’t hard to figure out what he meant. 

Stiles gulped. “A month or so?”

Deaton was standing with his back to them, pounding something with his mortar and pestle but Stiles saw that he was angled _just so_ , indicating that he was indeed listening to their private conversation. Great. His life was officially a soap opera.

“A whole _month_ , Stiles.” That wasn’t a question. 

“Yeah, about that…”

“I _know_ you guys think I’m a neurotic, controlling asshole of an Alpha, okay?” And suddenly Derek’s face was inches from his and Stiles’ breath stuttered from the shock of it but also from a cold, sense of guilt when he saw the frustration and _hurt_ in Derek’s eyes. Like he felt like a failure. And Stiles, in his own way, had _put_ that there, regardless of his increasing disassociation with the Pack. Part of him wanted to rant and rave at Derek for thinking that he had any right whatsoever to be upset about what Stiles did when _he_ wasn’t even part of his Pack. But the guilt overrode that, much to his chagrin, and his fingers itched with the need to grab onto his hair and place his face between his knees. “But I don’t do or say things because I enjoy telling you what to do. I get worried too,” he hissed angrily. 

Stiles, as always, felt the need to defend himself. “Yeah, well, the last time I tried to let you in on my expeditions the inner voice that was telling me to _run you over with my Jeep_ was kind of creating a little racket in my head so _excuse_ me.”

“What if he’d been dangerous?” Derek demanded, eyes flashing red but not in the feral way. It happened sometimes when he was trying to prove a point to his little minions and they weren’t falling into line quickly enough. 

“Al would _never_ hurt me, so shut the fuck-”

“But _what. if?_ ” 

The sound of their breathing filled the silence of Deaton’s back room that Stiles had come to discover so well in the past few months than he’d had the entire two years Scott worked there. Deaton was busy mixing more herbs, radiating a sadistic cheeriness that had Stiles nearly snapping at him. 

At some point Derek had managed to come in close enough to grip Stiles’ shoulders, his gaze angry and imploring. He smelled of _sweet mint_ and Stiles swallowed. Now was definitely not the time to turn into Derek’s complimentary bloodhound, no matter how much he wanted to lean in to get a stronger whiff of what it was and where it was coming from. 

“’What if’ didn’t happen, Derek.” Slipping free from his strong hands, Stiles focused his attention on Al and reached into the water to stroke his friend’s brow. “Al’s the best thing that’s happened to me so far.”

He felt Derek tense behind him for whatever reason that Stiles wasn’t willing to look into. Al needed him now. Al was all that mattered – not Derek’s pride or his status or whatever else he raised on a pedestal. Currently, Al was the only one keeping him sane. 

Admittedly that wasn’t totally fair on Derek. He’d been around much more lately. But… _lately_. Not before. 

Stiles was pedantic like that. 

“What is he to you?” Derek growled, low in his throat, like a wounded animal. 

“My friend,” Stiles answered honestly, playing with Al’s dark, wet tendrils of hair as they floated in wispily above his head. “Was planning on welcoming him into the family today. And then he got sick.”

“Family.”

Stiles smiled humorlessly. “Bit small with just my dad and me, I guess.”

“That’s not what I-”

“Well, I believe he’s strengthened enough for now.” Deaton smiled placidly and turned around, stirring the same, strange combination of leaves and herbs and something very foul smelling. 

Frowning, Stiles looked up. “Whoa, hold up, doc, he’s-”

“In need of his own lake. In need of _fae_ ,” their resident magical vet said vaguely but pointedly, as if that was supposed to mean something. It was times like these where had Stiles not been too stunned to snark back, he would have snapped at Deaton, regardless of the fact that he’d helped Stiles develop his own little apothecary in the backyard much to his father’s bemusement and surprisingly, intrigue. 

“Derek can help you,” Deaton added and Stiles’ eyes narrowed in irritation because _stirrer much?_

“That’s okay, I can-”

“I’ll help you.”

Stiles restrained himself from rolling his eyes but shot Derek an unamused look nonetheless because _now_ Derek wanted to tag along willingly. Talk about fickle. 

“Fine,” he snapped, accepting a few towels from Deaton, who smiled serenely despite the very obvious ire directed his way. “But you’re swearing _right now_ that you won’t tell anyone about the lake, got it? You leave Al alone.”

“Fine,” Derek returned without inflection as he reached into the water with hands gentler than Stiles usually gave him credit for – for good and violent reasons – and lifted Al back out again. 

Although his eyes stubbornly remained closed he breathed normally, and if Deaton didn’t look concerned then Stiles was inclined to suppress his worry, no matter how much the man annoyed him with half-truths. 

They drove to the lake with Al resting in the backseat. Occasionally Stiles met his tired gaze in the rear-view mirror and smiled reassuringly. Derek was as stiff as a board – no euphemism intended – next to him and Stiles felt it when Derek’s gaze slipped to the side to look at him. _So_ awkward. The dude looked like he’d just been told to sit in the corner after chewing on his owner’s slippers. Not that Stiles had a pair of slippers. Or owned him. Because slavery was illegal. Even for werewolves. Probably. 

“How did you find it?”

Stiles’ eyes flickered briefly to Derek. “I just did. Magic, I guess.”

Derek made a noise of affirmation and Stiles huffed, feeling a combination of exasperation and fondness for the guy. Derek shouldn’t have to tiptoe around him, he realized, but neither should Stiles constantly be on the defence as was usually the case when it came to the wolves. 

“He’s wonderful, you know?”

Derek stiffened further. “Have you told Danny?”

“Danny? No, why?”

Confused, Derek turned to face him fully. “But you two…?” He crossed his fingers, looking very uncomfortable. 

Stiles stared at Derek’s hand, boggled, and nearly swerved off the road when a squirrel ran across in front of them. 

“Oh, shi-!” 

But Derek grabbed the wheel, realigning them, and exhaled loudly. “Fucking hell, Stiles.” There wasn’t a note of anger in his voice, rather a resigned sort of weariness, and Stiles would have taken a moment to ponder over the situation and feel a little offended were his heart not beating a mile a minute. 

“To be fair, that was partially your fault,” he said lightly, hands back on the wheel. 

“Sorry,” Derek scoffed.

“No problem.”

Derek turned to look out the window but Stiles still caught the gentle uplift of his cheek and felt some of the pent up tension seep out of his shoulders. A happy Derek wasn’t always an approachable Derek but Stiles didn’t do that sort of compartmentalization, which was entirely attributable to his lack of self-preservation. 

“You don’t smell like Danny today.” Derek sounded like he was talking to himself, his voice so distant and quiet that Stiles almost missed it. 

“Okay, seriously now, why the fixation on Danny?” He might have let that come out a little harshly but really, since when did Derek even _care_ about Danny? Unless of course he was trying to _tap that_ , in which case _down boy_ and wait in line. Stiles had dibs on that ass. Or on that dick, rather, because he was under no misconceptions of his physical position should he and Danny ever get to the point of friendship where doing the nasty was the equivalent to asking someone over for a round of COD. 

“Oh my god!” Stiles exclaimed suddenly, realization hitting him like a smack on the head. “Oh my _god_.” He turned to glare at a very confused, growly-faced Derek. “What are you, _five?_ You can’t even tell a guy you like him? You useless piece of-!” Cutting himself off with a hiss, he shook his head because _damn_ , all that pigtail pulling and all the questions and the _growly faces_. It all made sense. 

“Stiles, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” And that was _definitely_ a note of urgency but oh _ho_ , no way was he getting out of this one. 

“I can’t believe you even- Ha! This is hilarious. Seriously, so much hilarity. I’m dying of hilariousness.” He laughed again, somewhat breathlessly this time, his heart beating a little too fast. And suddenly he wasn’t so sure how he felt about all this. Well, fuck. 

“Honestly, Stiles, I really don’t think you-”

“You’re jealous of me and Danny, aren’t you?” Stiles cut in because right now he needed to talk and talk he would. “You probably think we’re _dating_ , huh?” He couldn’t have him. Derek or Danny. They weren’t allowed to have each other. “And you know Danny’s always thought you were hot with the abs and the tattoo and just… _that_.”

“What? Danny-”

“When did it start, hm?” And this time he was not laughing. This time he was putting his foot down. “Because Danny’s not into you anymore. That ship has sailed, _Miguel_.” And if he took an angry sort of pleasure in saying that he wasn’t sorry. 

“I’m not trying to steal your boyfriend, Stiles! Why the fuck would you even-?” Derek exploded, aggravated and having pounded one fist on Stiles’ dashboard, which was _not okay_ , but the indignation on that part was caught in suspension when he rewound what Derek had said. 

He huffed a combination of a laugh and a scoff, caught between confusion and embarrassment. “Danny’s…not my boyfriend.” Gaze straight ahead, he debated pulling over and getting all this out in the open because Stiles had a distinct feeling that there was a whole lot he either didn’t know about or hadn’t taken the time to truly listen. This was not at all surprising, really. “But…you don’t really care about that…do you?”

It took a while for Derek to reply. “Not particularly,” came his flat response.

“O-oh. Right, then. I, uh, might have…”

“Jumped to conclusions in your attempt to finish my sentences?”

He didn’t miss a beat, did he?

“Yeah, that.” With an awkward chuckle, Stiles sneaked a look in Derek’s direction to find him looking back at him, long-suffering and clearly unimpressed with Stiles’ broken powers of deduction. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you really don’t listen enough?”

“Mm, multiple times, maybe?”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” Stiles agreed sheepishly. 

Derek nodded to himself, and began, uncomfortably, “I only assumed because…you smell like one another. A lot.”

Stiles shrugged helplessly. “We hang out a lot.” And while he might not have been completely comfortable in revealing his little secret, he kind of owed it to Derek in that instance. “We go to a…class together.” He gazed resolutely ahead, lips pouted as he tried to express his desire not to have to explain. 

“A class?” Derek prompted un-yieldingly, because _of course_. Nosy asshole. 

“Massage class,” he muttered irritably. 

Derek was silent again until, “…What _kind_ of massage?”

“ _Not_ the kind you’re thinking of, you disgusting, perverted wolf! What would your puppies think?” 

“So,” Derek dragged out, looking entirely too amused for Stiles’ liking, “regular massage?”

“You-! I don’t even wanna _know_ what’s going on in your disgusting little head right now. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“Uh huh.”

“You are an asshole. You should be blacklisted in every state.”

“I’m not the one selling my body.”

“From _every country!_ ”

Derek just laughed and it definitely didn’t send tingles of relief up and down Stiles’ spine. 

 

Al was more or less on his feet when they arrived at the lake, and Stiles took his time with him, allowing Derek to look around in his own stoic version of awe. The moment Al’s feet touched the water he turned back into his animal form and Derek stood a little straighter, eyes assessing and sharp. 

“You’re okay now, right?” Stiles asked, subtly positioning himself between Al and Derek. 

_“I will be, Stiles. Thank you.”_ He turned his pale, milky eyes towards Derek and lowered his head in what was either a bow or a nod – Stiles wasn’t sure. _“My thanks to you as well, Master Hale. I hope our next meeting is under better circumstances.”_

If Derek was at all unnerved by the omniscient voice he didn’t show it but nodded stiffly. “Likewise.”

He ignored Stiles’ warning glare. 

“All righty, buddy.” Stiles smiled and reached up with both arms in one of their awkward but affectionate hugs. “I’ll see you later,” he whispered, inhaling the scent of sea salt one more time. 

_“Until then.”_

\--

Stiles pulled over on a road shoulder on the way back, feeling drained by the day’s events but also anxious about Derek’s potential response to it all. 

Time to rip the Band-Aid off yet again. 

With a sigh, he turned to Derek to speak; “Look, I-” and then promptly lost all the air from his lungs when Derek slipped a hand around the back of his neck, suddenly a lot closer to his face. Their noses could have touched given an inch or two more. And the only thing he could think of was that they’d been in this position before but this wasn’t the same, somehow. Not for Stiles. 

His hand was hot. “I won’t say anything.” His eyes and voice were much too sincere. “I promised I wouldn’t.” Stiles really couldn’t help being drawn to the movement of his lips. “You can trust me in that at least, okay?”

Stiles felt warm and his lips felt tingly, like a magnet being drawn to-

“Yeah,” he croaked, still staring at Derek’s mouth because it was just _so close_. “I believe you. Thanks, dude.”

With a small, grateful quirk of his lips that did nothing to calm the stutter of Stiles’ heart, Derek drew back, his palm sliding around his neck and brushing his shoulder as he pulled away.

The loss of that weight made his body too light, as if he’d float away without it.

Dangerous indeed.


End file.
